


The Importance Of Elsewhere.

by Jackmerlin



Category: The Marlows - Antonia Forest
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-31 00:59:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 53,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackmerlin/pseuds/Jackmerlin
Summary: After the events of Attic Term and Run Away Home, Ginty runs away to become a stable-girl. Based on the idea that AF was planning a book in which Ginty would run away to Ireland, and Captain Marlow would tell her that 'she had made her bed, so would have to lie in it' and refuse to let her come home. This is my imagining of how that story might work out.(This isn't new; it was formerly on my LJ.)





	1. Mrs Merrick's Revenge.

**Author's Note:**

> As far as the timeline goes, this has moved on from the end of RAH, but not as far as the present day. So while mobile phones may exist, it is not yet normal for ordinary people to own them. I have imagined this story set in the early to mid-nineties. In Marlow-time it is set immediately after Run Away Home.

Gemma had single-handedly mucked out sixteen stables before breakfast. The ground was frozen with the first bitterly cold weather of the new year, and the roads were treacherously slippery; which was going to make exercising the horses impossible until the racing lads had finished with the indoor school. All of which was making Gemma feel decidedly disgruntled. Even her favourite sight of the old oak tree silhouetted like calligraphy against the flushed pink sky of a late winter sunrise failed to cheer her as she turned up the path to her employer's back door.  
At least the kettle was already shrilly boiling on the Aga as she entered the farmhouse kitchen. In fact it must have been boiling ignored for some time; she could hear her boss, universally known as Mrs M, talking on the phone in the study. Mrs M, used to making herself heard across a forty-acre field in a howling gale at Pony Club rallies, rarely considered conversations private enough to be worth lowering her voice - often to her now grown-up children's embarrassment. Gemma heard 'thank you so much' and 'really helpful' as she made mugs of strong tea.  
"Well, I think I've got you some help", announced Mrs M, coming in. "Girl rang about the advertisement last night. Oh, lovely, thanks," as she acccepted the dark brown, stewed tea, just the way they both liked it.  
"It was a bit of an odd conversation," she continued. "Girl in England somewhere - she was a bit vague about where exactly, named Ginny, no, not Ginny, Ginty - I keep thinking of Ginny Leng you know - not that she's Leng any more of course. Anyway, I wasn't sure she was serious, she sounded half scared on the phone, I thought she was going to ring off and we'd never hear from her again. Still, seems she does want to come. I wanted to have a chat with her parents because it's a long way to come and she's only sixteen but she kept making excuses about how I wouldn't be able to speak to them. Dad's away and so on. But I had to have some sort of reference, and eventually she gave me her MP's home number of all things!"  
"Her _MP_?" asked Gemma, managing to break into the flow.  
"They hunt with the same pack apparently. It's a good pack by all accounts. Anyway, that's who I was ringing now. Didn't get hold of him, of course, but his wife answered the phone. She sounded a bit surprised that the girl was looking for a job but she's given her a great reference. Knows the girl, couldn't speak highly enough. Fantastic rider apparently, jumps everything out hunting - on her own pony of course, so we'll have to see what's she's like on anything else. Done all the usual Pony Club stuff. She won't have done much in the way of work though, she's been at boarding school and the family have grooms to do the horses."  
Gemma felt her heart sink. You could always get people who wanted to ride, when what they needed was someone who could work. This girl sounded like she would expect to spend all day schooling the young eventers and never mucking out.  
"But at least she's used to being away from home," continued Mrs M. "She won't want to go home homesick after two days like the last one did. But this lady says she's a lovely girl, quick learner and very helpful so it all sounds quite hopeful. And this lady knows the parents too, and she was sure it's absolutely fine with them that the girl's leaving school. Because I did think it was a bit odd to be leaving at this time of year; even though she's sixteen so obviously she can. But that's alright apparently, so there we are. She'll be on the overnight ferry from Liverpool on Wednesday night. Would you be really kind and pick her up from Belfast on Thursday morning, only that's the day I'm going down to Cavan."

 

x x x x x

 

 

"Lal!" Nicola hissed across the darkened room. "Lawrie, are you awake?"  
"I am _now_ ".  
"Where's Gin?"  
"In the bath?"  
"She couldn't be still."  
Lawrie sat up. "Maybe she's drowned." There was a touch of cheerful relish in her voice. "It would serve her right, the way she's been since we got back."  
"Yes, but her sponge bag is still here, look. I don't think she even came up at bedtime."  
"Maybe she's with Monica. She's asked for another dorm 'cos she hates us all so much. Or she's in the San..."  
"They'd have told us if she was. She must be doing something with Monica."  
"Maybe they've gone to see if they can buy cider at the 'Slug and Lettuce' ... Rumour - mostly propagated by day girls- had it that the new pub in one of Colebridge's back streets wasn't too fussy about checking the age of would-be drinkers.  
"Don't be daft. Monica wouldn't be so silly."  
"Do you think we'd better go and look for her?" asked Lawrie.  
"No, if they are doing something, and we're caught looking for them, there'll be an almighty row, and Gin will think even more that we've crawled out from under stones. You know how foul she's been since we got back.."  
Feeling guilty, they had all spent rather more than they usually would on belated birthday presents for Ginty. Peter had used a precious roll of film, and taken a really very good portrait of Catkin; Nicola had bought a pewter frame to mount it in. When Ginty opened it, she seemed suddenly pleased and friendly again, until in the ensuing conversation, Lawrie let slip that she had hunted Catkin over the holidays and Ginty reverted to her cold anger. She had been snapping and snarling at them so much in the week since they had been back at school that Lawrie and Nicola found it easier to avoid her as much as possible. Ann, while trying hardest to restore friendly relations, kept making things worse, blaming herself and constantly apologising, when as any fool could see, thought Nicola, the matter would be much better dropped. Ann had left her juniors in their dormitory to 'just pop up and see if Gin was ok', when Lawrie had remarked callously, "I don't know why you bother, Ann. If you'd been away, I'm sure Gin wouldn't have remembered _your_ birthday." To which Ginty had retorted, "And I suppose _you'd_ ride her pony and Nick would go off with her boyfriend!" Which was followed by a horrified silence, broken by Ginty slamming the door on her way out and Ann, almost in tears, saying to Lawrie "You really don't think about _anyone's_ feelings but your own, do you?" and following Ginty down the stairs. After that outburst, Ginty had taken to coming up to bed as late as she legally could, and disappearing into the bathroom until Lawrie and Nicola were asleep, or at least had the wisdom to pretend to be asleep.  
Now Lawrie suggested, "We could at least look in the bathroom. We couldn't be told off about that." Clearly, she would rather Nicola do the looking, so Nicola sighed and reluctantly pushed her covers back. Padding across the room she was startled by a scratch on the door and opened it to see Monica, looking furtive.  
"Nicola! I wanted to talk to Gin, only she said something odd earlier and I haven't seen her all evening.."  
"Gin's not here!"  
Standing in the doorway, they both heard the footsteps of Authority in the corridor below.  
"Quick!" Nicola pulled Monica in, shoved Monica towards Ginty's bed and dived into her own bed. They heard Matron's heavy tread on the stairs, and the door slide open a few inches. Lawrie gave a convincing sigh and stirred as in her sleep. Monica was just a lump under the covers. Nicola lay, heart pounding, wondering why on earth Matron should have thought to check their attic room on this night of all nights. The door closed again and Nicola counted to sixty, then sixty again, then sat up cautiously.  
"When did _you_ last see Gin?" Monica asked, emerging from Ginty's blankets. "Only she said something really weird to me this morning, something about not being around for much longer, and I was worried when she wasn't in the common room this evening."  
"We don't see much of her at the moment" admitted Nicola. "And I didn't see her at tea or supper but I wasn't really looking at her table."  
"She was in lessons this morning," said Monica. "Only then it was free afternoon, and they're making me do catch-up sessions for all the stuff I missed last term. And the others didn't see her, only they thought she'd sloped off on her own, like she used to do last term when I wasn't here. And then this evening - I didn't want to be too obvious about her being missing in case .. Well, she told me about about that boy she was phoning last term.."  
"Boy!" said Lawrie, "I thought she was ringing you!"  
"And I wondered if he'd managed to come up and see her and she'd slipped out to meet him?"  
"What boy?" asked Lawrie.  
"Oh Lawrie, don't be dim. Patrick, of course!" snapped Nicola, realising as she said it, that this horrible frozen feeling in her stomach was what Ginty had been feeling too.  
"Only I thought if it was that she would have told you two, so you wouldn't worry when she wasn't here at bedtime? But she didn't?"  
"Not a thing" said Nicola. They sat in silence for a minute, while they each imagined their version of the worst that could happen.  
"Look," said Monica finally. "We don't know where she is or what she's doing but it's nearly midnight. So we've got to tell someone. If she is just bunking off, we'll all be in trouble, but that's better than the other - that she's missing and in danger and nobody's looking for her."  
"Ok" said Nicola. "Only we should go and get Ann first though, and tell her. Then we'll go and see if Miss Keith is awake."

 

x x x x x

 

 

Gemma sighed and wondered if this girl had changed her mind after all. She was standing at the foot passenger gate of the ferry terminal. She could hear the rumble of cars unloading from the ferry, and a gaggle of foot passengers had already come past her, yawning in the early morning air. None of them was obviously a sixteen year old girl travelling alone, none of them had glanced at her cardboard sign which had Ginty Marlow scrawled on it in big letters. She now felt rather foolish holding it. Just as she was wondering how long she should wait a lone passenger came through the gate and her eyes dropped with obvious relief and recognition to the name on Gemma's card. So _that's_ what they mean by a face that launched a thousand ships, thought Gemma, but that thought instantly collided with - oh my god, the lads are going to eat her for breakfast. Gemma had never seen a face in real life that was so beautiful, even though Ginty looked as if she had not slept all night and had all the marks on her face of having been crying.  
"Hi, I'm Gemma. The car's this way. Mrs M was sorry she couldn't come and meet you herself, but she'd arranged to go and see Patrick jump today."  
"P-Patrick!" said Ginty, with a start.  
"Yes, that's her son," explained Gemma, wondering why Ginty looked so disconcerted. "He show-jumps. He has his own yard down south, and whenever he comes anywhere up here Mrs M tries to go and see him."  
"Oh" replied Ginty in obvious embarrassment. So who's your significant Patrick then, thought Gemma curiously, but pressed on cheerfully. "So Mrs M asked me to come and get you and show you round and she'll be back tonight, not too late hopefully. Is that all your stuff?" Ginty only had a small bag, which she threw in the boot of the battered Fiesta that Gemma drove. "Only it doesn't look enough? You've come for a month's trial, Mrs M said?"  
"I, uh, packed in a bit of a hurry." Ginty looked worried, and on the verge of tears again.  
"Oh well, I'm sure we can sort you out with some stuff. There's some spare riding hats knocking about in the tackroom, although they're crusted with the sweat of ages, and I expect there's some boots in the bootroom that someone's left behind. You might need to line them with plastic bags if they're a bit leaky."  
"Perhaps I could buy some stuff..."  
What with, thought Gemma. Ginty was coming as a working pupil, which meant she would get her board, keep and what was euphemistically called a 'pocket-money wage'. Then Gemma remembered that Ginty was supposedly from a rich family. "I'm sure we can lend you anything you need between us. And you could go shopping in Antrim on your day off."  
Ginty sat in a subdued silence as Gemma drove them home. To fill the silence, Gemma chatted on in what she hoped was a cheerful and welcoming way. But she couldn't help worrying. Gemma was English herself, and it had taken a while for her to fit in here; even now she felt she didn't truly belong. And she hadn't been as young, or as seemingly posh, or as scared and unhappy as this girl seemed to be. In between the toughness of the work and the unsubtle attentions of smitten stable-lads, Gemma couldn't see Ginty lasting very long.


	2. Sweetmore Stud.

Mrs McKinley's late father had retired from a successful business career with too much money and too much time on his hands, and had decided to devote both money and time to his passion for National Hunt racing. He had filled the handsome courtyard of brick built stables behind his house in County Antrim with expensively well-bred thoroughbred mares. Meanwhile, his daughter Charlotte had established herself as a successful event rider, competing mainly in England. Her riding career petered out with the birth of her first son and the retirement of her best horse. Her husband, better looking than her, but also less successful, which hurt his pride both ways, found someone prettier and more admiring of his ability, and moved out soon after the birth of their second son. Charlotte took her sons Patrick and Thomas home, where they grew up alongside the progeny of their grandfather's breeding enterprise. Charlotte, dropping her married name but keeping the Mrs in front of her maiden name, threw her energies into turning what her father had started into a mixed Racing and Competition Horse Stud. Soon after her return to Ireland she bought a stallion who was being sold cheaply because his youngstock lacked speed. Charlotte, following local point-to-point form, had noticed that though slow, the horses he sired could jump and generally seemed to have good temperaments. She was lucky. Her plan would not have worked in England where people were more careful about what they bred. In Ireland, where people thought that if they had a field they could have a horse, and if they had a horse they might as well breed another horse, she succeeded. She used her stallion on her own and her friends' eventing or jumping mares for free, and the first years foals were good looking, big straight types. By the time the first crop were being broken and ridden, it was apparent that they had inherited their father's calm temperament. Enough of them were talented jumpers and good movers to do well competing, and a couple of them became minor stars - enough to make Sweetmore Stud a modest success. Patrick and Thomas competed in Pony Club competitions, then Juniors and Young Riders in their respective sports. Sibling rivalry was eased by each of them preferring different disciplines - Patrick show-jumping, and Thomas eventing. They both became skilled at bringing on the young horses their mother produced, selling most of them on to fund the cost of competing at a higher level on the few they chose to keep. Charlotte, or Mrs M as she became known, became a well-known mother on the competition circuit.  
Over the years, the original stable block had been added to by purpose-built barns of wooden stables, an indoor school, a horse-walker and a cross-country course built around the fields where hay and oats were grown, and mares and foals grazed. When her father died, Mrs M slightly lost interest in the racing side of the stud. Old brood mares were not replaced when they retired. Craig, the ex-jockey who looked after the young racehorses, increasingly took over as a trainer in his own right, and he was talented enough that he could fill any empty boxes with paying customers. With a little more ambition (and a little less fondness for drink) he could have set up on his own, but Mrs M gave him a free enough hand that he was content enough where he was.  
When Patrick was in his early twenties he left to set up his own yard with a girlfriend. Only very unkind people said he'd had to go all the way down south in order to escape Mrs M's apron strings. Gemma, who'd been employed as travelling groom, going to competitions with the boys, chose to stay at Sweetmore rather than going with Patrick. Soon after, Thomas went to England to spend the main event season training with a top British rider. He worked for them, and rode their young horses in exchange for help with competing his own horses. Gemma's main role now was to break in and train the young horses on the stud; those who were ready to compete when Thomas returned in the mid-summer quiet period, or in the winter off-season, would return with him to England.  
Most of this Gemma told Ginty on the drive back, although Ginty's monosyllabic replies didn't show how much she was really taking in. "So that's where you come in," finished Gemma. "We really need a good lightweight rider to help with all these young horses. If you get on alright there's a lot of local small competitions you'll be able to ride them at; and if you're getting on well with a horse Mrs M will let you take it to the BHS events. She can be a bit scary at times, but she's also really generous like that."  
Gemma turned off the road into the driveway to the yard, and Ginty saw rolling fields, lines of well-kept stud fencing, a beautiful Georgian house, heads looking over stable doors and various shapes and sizes of dogs running out to meet the car.  
"I hope I haven't bored you, telling you all the history from the year dot. Anyway you'll find there's loads of people to socialise with; there's the racing lads, and a couple of the jockeys ride out most days, and there's another yard just down the road so we see everyone who works there all the time. Come this way, nobody uses the front door." Gemma led the way into the house, and up a stairway lined with Snaffles prints, to the room that Ginty was to have. "You get the best view from this room, you look right down on Theo."  
Ginty looked out of her window and saw the stables, set out like a horse shoe round a gravel courtyard. Over the stable door at the head of the yard directly opposite was a handsome bay head.  
"He's the grand old man of the yard. Mrs M got him as a schoolmaster for Thomas when he started to get seriously into eventing. He's been round Badminton twice and Burghley three times so he knows it all. He's a great nanny for all the young horses. You can ride him this afternoon, when we've sorted you out with some kit. Now, let's have some tea first, then I'll leave you to settle in. If I show you the phone in the hall, you can ring home and let them know you've arrived safely, if you want. Then when you're ready come out to the yard and I'll show you around."

X X X X X

 

Mrs Marlow pushed away her fifth cup of coffee. The ash tray, overflowing with cigarette butts testified to her broken New Year's resolution to give up smoking. She was sitting in the study, staring at the stubbornly silent phone, when she heard a diffident tap on the door. She couldn't hide her dismay when it was only her son-in-law.  
Oh not now, whatever it is, Pam couldn't help thinking.  
"Is there anything I can do, Mrs Marlow? Only when Rowan came round to tell us that Virginia was missing, Katy had already left to take the children to school. Only..well, I remember the time Rose ran away, I ..." Edwin seemed unsure of how to go on. "You all helped so very much, and I know how worrying it is ... when you don't know where they are .." He cleared his throat with an embarrassed half-cough.  
He was obviously genuinely concerned behind his awkward manner, but it was so ingrained in Pam to use her polite company voice with Edwin that she said briskly, "I'm sure Ginty will turn up safe and sound. I expect she's got some silly notion in her head. .. .I really didn't want Rowan to bother you only she felt we should contact everyone who Ginty might have left a message with, however remote it seemed. I've been trying to contact the Merricks but the only one up was that French au-pair of theirs.."  
At that moment the phone rang and Pam dashed. Edwin hesitantly hung in the open doorway, not close enough to intrude, but Pam's voice, shrill with relieved anger carried clearly. "Ginty! Where on earth are you? .....You're where?..."

X X X X X

"Well, of all the ..." started Lawrie, as she emerged into the corridor from Miss Keith's room. Nicola hastily shut the door behind her as she followed Ann out. "Ginty's in Ireland and we're in trouble!"  
"It's my fault," said Ann unhappily. "If only I'd realised she wasn't there at tea.."  
"She must have been gone for ages by tea," snapped Nicola."We couldn't have done anything if we _had_ noticed. And it's not just us - none of the staff noticed, did they? Or the prefect on her table?"  
"She was in the the San herself with a tummy bug. Half the sixth form are down with it," said Ann. "Oh dear, what about her exams?"  
"She's not going to need them working in a stables, is she? It's us Keith is mad at, you were with your juniors. We should have realised quicker and alerted a member of staff. Our 'lack of responsibility means that they'll have to consider if we are suitable representatives of the school' to be in things. It's just typical Ginty - she makes a muck of things and everyone else gets clobbered!"

 


	3. Letter To Monica.

'Dear Monica,  
It's my day off and the first thing I wanted to do was to write to you and explain..'  
Actually, Ginty wasn't being entirely truthful here; the _first_ thing she had wanted to do was sleep and sleep and then sleep some more. And then when she felt hungry go down to the kitchen, make a mountain of toast and a mug of tea and then return back with the loaded plate to bed. Proper buttered toast, too, thought Ginty. (Mrs M didn't believe in margarine; she said it looked like the grease you put on the horses' legs before they went cross-country, so she certainly wasn't putting it in her stomach.) To sleep in for as long as she wanted was a novelty for Ginty. At school there were always bells and set breakfast times, even on a Sunday, and at home they were always expected to be dressed and down for breakfast, otherwise 'it wasn't fair on Mrs Bertie'. The only time Ginty had ever been allowed to properly lie-in was the half-term she had spent with her Grandmother in Paris. So, this was _blissful_ , thought Ginty. Apart from which, she ached all over from the unfamiliar work. Her body felt as if it had been battered in rough seas for days on end.  
'I feel terrible about the way I left without telling you what I was planning. You and your family were so nice to me over Christmas when my beastly family forgot all about me. So going off like that was what my mother would call a thoroughly shabby thing to do. Sorrow sorrow sorrow. The truth is, I knew if I talked to you about it, you would try to talk me out of it, and knowing you, you would have succeeded. And I didn't want that to happen. I have to do something with my life to make people see me as a different sort of person. I have to be a different sort of person. And I didn't think I could be at school, not after last term and everything that happened with Nicola and you-know-who.'  
Ginty paused, sucking her pen lid. Put like that her actions seemed more purposeful than they really had been. While she had been actually staying with Monica she hadn't thought she minded that much about her family forgetting her at Christmas and then her birthday too. Monica's parents had bought her a beautiful cashmere jumper for Christmas, the same shade of greeny- blue as her own eyes. On her birthday, they had all gone out to dinner at a proper grown-up restaurant; Monica's parents had ordered wine and she and Monica had been given a full glass each with only a splash of water in it. So the holidays had been lovely mostly, apart from Patrick not answering any of her letters, which she kept telling herself was because the post was always slow over Christmas and New Year. She thought when she got back to school she would be cool and dismissive with her sisters, as if only _little_ girls even _thought_ about birthdays. But then they were so obviously keeping secrets from her. Lawrie kept starting to say things, only for Nicola to glare at her or tread on her foot. When she asked them what they had done all holiday they went all vague, and said things like -oh, you know, this and that, the usual stuff. And then all her suspicions were confirmed when Lawrie was telling some exaggerated story about one of the guests at the Merrick's party; Nicola said "Oh, come off it, Lal, that never happened," and Lawrie had retorted, "How would _you_ know? You were dancing with Patrick all that time."  
At first, when she started looking at the job advertisements in the Horse and Hound she had bought to read on the train journey back to school, she had just been idly imagining all their reactions if she just left. She would be like Rowan, cool and brave, a grown-up doing a job, _not_ a silly school-girl like the rest of them. And then the letter came.  
'Dear Ginty,  
Sorry I haven't replied to your letters. Truth is, I needed some time to think. It's nothing to do with getting the boot from school. You did me a favour there. From your letters it seems you think there is something between us more than friendship. There isn't. We got carried away with Gondal, and I imagined myself in love with a character we invented. I have been infatuated with someone called Rosina, and Rosina is fundamentally a creature of my own imagination - an 'airy nothing' given a name.  
So I honestly can't return your feelings. I don't know who I'm returning them too. Sorry Gin,  
Regards, Patrick.'

 

XXXXX

On the ferry she shredded Patrick's letter into tiny pieces and threw them one by one over the rail to blow away into the Irish sea. But the words had seared themselves into her brain, to be remembered forever. She couldn't sleep on the ferry and spent the night wondering if she'd made the biggest mistake of her life. But whatever happened, she thought, she wasn't going back. She wasn't going to be someone who could be called an 'airy nothing'; that was the old Ginty who was being left behind with her school uniform.  
The first week went reasonably well on the whole, she thought. But she realised now how little she knew and how much there was to learn. She had dimly imagined it would all be mucking out and tack-cleaning, but there was so much more that she knew nothing about. Of course there was lots of mucking out. But Gemma mucked out three boxes to Ginty's one; when Ginty tried to say she was sorry for being so slow Gemma said, "The thing is to concentrate on doing it properly at the moment, you'll get quicker as you get used to it." So Ginty suspected she wasn't even doing it properly yet.  
And the mucking out was depressingly endless. As soon as you finished one row of boxes, most of the horses would have done at least one more dropping. And you were expected to pick them up, known as 'skipping out', whenever you went in to tack up or groom a horse. Ginty didn't know this the first day, and Mrs M caught her tacking up Theo with droppings still on the floor. "Come on girl," she'd yelled. "You're not at home now, you know! No-one's going to come and pick it up for you while you're out riding!" And then Ginty hadn't known that you were supposed to pick out the horses' feet before you brought them out of the stable, and she led Theo out trailing muck from his hooves across the yard, and Mrs M yelled at her again.  
Grooming was better, mainly because the young horses had come in from their winter break shaggy and caked in mud. "All we can do is keep scraping," said Gemma. "This one's so muddy we could grow potatoes on him." She gave Ginty a peculiar rubber tool with lots of soft points on it, and showed her how to rub it all over the horse in small circles. Clouds of mud and loose hair came off, mostly onto Ginty. Her supply of clothes borrowed from Gemma and Mrs M were constantly filthy; Mrs M had showed her how to use the washing machine, and for the first time in her life she had to wash her own clothes, hanging them on the rail above the Aga to dry overnight.  
Getting up in the mornings was hard. Used to the bustle of other people getting up in the same room, Ginty couldn't get used to getting herself up on her own. After she had overslept a couple of times, Mrs M took to banging loudly on her door first thing every morning. If Ginty didn't appear soon after, Mrs M 'sent in the dogs', slipping open Ginty's door and letting in Fauntleroy the golden retriever puppy. No-one could possibly sleep with him leaping round the bed.  
One thing that had surprised Ginty was to find that she could be nervous around some of the horses. She had never felt fear on a horse's back in her life. But on the ground it could be a different matter. She had been squashed into doorways by broodmares impatient to join their friends in the paddocks; had her feet trampled by bad-mannered youngsters; and very nearly had her head kicked by a rearing four-year-old who was refusing to be led into the school. To hold onto a nervous young horse which desperately wanted to be somewhere else could be distinctly alarming and she wished they were ready to ride so that she could be safely on their backs away from all their thrashing heads and hooves. She felt a surprised but growing respect for Gemma's ability to handle the horses from the ground. Gemma let her watch the horses being firstly lunged and then long-reined in the school. "They were broken properly in the summer," she explained. "This is by way of a refresher course. So we're moving through the stages quite quickly and hopefully we'll be on them next week." Gemma, standing in the middle of the school with a horse circling her on the lunge rein, hardly seemed to do anything that Ginty could see - just subtle body language and low voice commands, and the horse, however reluctant and contrary at first, was soon listening and responding and going beautifully. It was not as easy as it looked, as Ginty found, when Gemma was teaching her how to lunge; the horse - one of the better behaved ones, kept whipping round and going the other way round the circle from the way Ginty wanted it to go, then cheekily swinging in and refusing to go at all. "You'll learn," Gemma said patiently. "Both of you!" she added, talking to the horse.  
The best thing had been the riding. Because the roads were frozen she had been allowed to ride Theo in the school every day. Usually she was told to warm him up slowly by herself for fifteen minutes, because Mrs M told her, "He comes out very stiff in the mornings now he's an old man. Bit like me." Then Mrs M would join her in the school and give her a lesson on him. She had always enjoyed dressage on Catkin, but Theo was something else entirely. Of course he was a bigger horse than Catkin, and she had to use more leg, more seat, more everything on him but he was the most well-schooled horse she had ever ridden. "He can do it all backwards," Mrs M told her, and she found herself riding movements she had never even heard of, never mind tried. One day, Mrs M had her working Theo on a circle, bringing him down to a very slow, controlled trot, then sending him on for six paces into a bigger, faster trot, then back again to the collected trot. "Ok, when you get to the corner, send him across the diagonal and ask for the extended trot. Kick and hold!" Ginty did as she was told, and Theo exploded into the most powerful but smooth, flying, floating feeling; "Brake before the corner!" yelled Mrs M, and Ginty balanced Theo just in time for the turn. She couldn't stop the exultant grin that spread across her face - when galloping Catkin across the moor at home, she had never imagined that a trot could feel just as exciting. "He goes beautifully for you," Mrs M told her. "He can be a real leg-puller with people who think they know it all, but he appreciates the way you ride him." On the yard Ginty was nervous of Mrs M who was always yelling at her mistakes; but in the school she was an encouraging teacher and Ginty came to trust and respect her instruction.  
She also rode out one racehorse most mornings. As soon as Craig, the trainer, had found out that the new girl was a good rider, he had asked Gemma if she could spare Ginty to ride out. Gemma agreed that she could ride second or third lot, "but not first lot, because I'm not being left with all the mucking out," she said crossly. Ginty found Craig disconcerting; when they were first introduced he looked at her appraisingly as if she were a horse who needed trotting up. He wasn't unfriendly to her, but didn't talk much; unlike the other lads who were always gossiping, or discussing which of the days runners might be worth a punt. She was introduced to Sean and Brendan, who worked with the racehorses, and Spencer, a local point-to-point jockey who came to ride out most mornings. Spencer was a baby-faced charmer, very eager as they rode along to explain all about Irish point-to-pointing to her, including telling her how many winners he'd ridden himself last season. He looked at his best on a horse, all wiry strength and balanced poise. He had deceptively innocent eyes, very blue and open under their frame of thick lashes. As they jogged along the lanes to the gallop, Spencer's horse often seemed to squeeze close to hers, allowing his leg to brush against her thigh.  
She had been given Rupert to ride, a young horse about to start his first season's racing, but a lovely, mannered ride - 'a proper Christian' the lads called him. Luckily Craig didn't expect her to ride in a racing saddle with really short stirrups like the others did, because "they were only cantering" he told her. She was surprised how fast 'only cantering' was as she bent over Rupert's neck, travelling at exhilarating speed behind the others up the all-weather galloping track, with the glorious thunder of hooves in her ears.

Spencer, Sean and Brendan all suggested she join them in the pub in the evenings, and Gemma had asked her if she wanted to come out and meet some of her friends at a local live-music night; but Ginty found she was so exhausted when work was finished for the day that all she wanted to do was collapse into a chair at the big kitchen table and never get up again. She spent her evenings with Mrs M in the kitchen, half-falling asleep with the heat from the Aga seeping into her tired body after being out in the cold all day. Gemma and Craig lived in cottages on the farm, and the others lived locally, so only Ginty lived in the farmhouse with Mrs M. Away from the horses Mrs M was cheerful, amusing company; she was a good if eccentric cook, and always worried if Ginty didn't eat several helpings of everything. She kept a chocolate-and-cake cupboard constantly stocked up too, and was disappointed if Ginty didn't help herself to something from it at least once in an evening. She was addicted to any sort of detective drama, although her viewing was interrupted so often by phone calls to do with Pony Club or Stud business that Ginty had to stay alert and follow the story so that she could fill Mrs M in when she came back. And then, at what would have seemed a ridiculously early time at home, she crawled up to bed, and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	4. Consequences.

Rowan came in very late for dinner, blaming the unfortunate ewe who had got into difficulties giving birth to triplets.  
"You didn't wait for me, did you?" she asked. "You shouldn't have."  
"No, I didn't feel like anything to eat. Mrs Bertie's keeping yours hot though," Pam said abstractedly.  
Rowan eyed the empty glass on the table. Something in her mother's set expression reminded her of her sister Nicola's face when she wanted to cry but wouldn't. "Mum?"  
"Your father just called. He's going to be home on leave for a few days over half-term. "  
"That's luck. What did he say about Ginty?"  
"I've never known him so furious. Not even when.... He was absolutely blistering."  
"Well, it's Ginty he needs to tell, not you!"  
"I'll have to ring her tomorrow. I don't feel up to it now. If only I hadn't been away all over Christmas .."  
"So was she! It wouldn't have made any difference you being here."  
"If I had been here she might have only stayed the one week with Monica. And then she might have told me what was going on!"  
"Well you know what I think.."  
"Yes darling, I do, but it doesn't actually _help_ you looking daggers every time her name is mentioned." Pam went to the side board to pour herself another drink.  
"OK." Rowan bit back what she _wanted_ to say. "Sorry. Look, I'm going to grab my plate and then I have to go back to the lambing shed. That vet student doesn't really know what he's doing yet."  
"You are still taking a day off tomorrow to go hunting though, aren't you? Only we're going to have to sell Catkin, and if you could start passing the word round - maybe see if Mr Reynolds knows anyone who'd be interested in buying him?"

XXXXX

Gemma and Ginty started riding the young horses during Ginty's second week at work. This was a new way of riding for Ginty. She wasn't alarmed by their jolts and starts, nor by their usually half-hearted attempts to buck her off. None of that was any worse than anything Catkin had ever done. But she wasn't used to riding 'babies' who were unbalanced and weak and wobbly at times. "You have to give them lots of warning before you do anything," Gemma told her, "and use lots of voice. They know all the voice commands. And don't just assume that if there's a big hole in front of you they won't fall in it. You're used to riding ponies who have more of a sense of self-preservation!"  
Moth was Ginty's favourite. At first she liked him because he reminded her of Catkin. He was half-pony and a bit of an afterthought as Gemma explained. Gemma was leading him round the school while Ginty sat on him for the first time; to help keep him calm Gemma told Ginty the story in a low soothing voice pitched for Moth's benefit. "His mother was an absolutely super young riders' horse, Patrick and Tom both did everything on her. I don't think she stopped at a jump in her life. Then when she retired they thought they'd try breeding from her even though she was a bit old by then. So they sent her to this smart eventing stallion and she didn't get in foal, and they tried again, still nothing , so they thought she probably couldn't. So they gave up and turned her out with an old Connemara pony stallion who was retired himself, just to be company . Well, it was nearly autumn by then, so no-one thought anything could happen, but late next summer when Mrs M did her daily rounds there he was, a little foal in the field. Anyway, because the three of them stayed living out, this boy got a lot less handling than the thoroughbreds who were born earlier and in stables at night. Which is why he's a bit of an eejit sometimes. It took much longer to break him in last year than the others, because he was so wild, so he hasn't done as much as the others yet. He'll be a super horse for a teenager though if we can calm him down a bit. He's got a jump like a stag, we'll loose-jump him one day and you'll see. He just pings off the ground! OK, he's relaxed in his back now, so are you alright if I let you go now?"  
Ginty nodded yes, and Gemma slid the lead rope through the bit ring, stepping away so that Moth was walking on his own. He flicked his ears nervously between Gemma, beside him, and Ginty on his back. "Good boy" they both assured him, then Gemma told Ginty to try a trot when she was ready. He moved into trot and was going beautifully round the school when a noise outside startled him; he launched into a flat out gallop, realised the school wall was coming up fast and whirled round, throwing startled bucks as Ginty's weight shifted violently on his back. Ginty was still in the saddle, although she had lost her stirrups in the first lurch and slipped her reins to lean well back when he bucked. Now she sat down deep in the saddle and squeezed with her legs, finding her stirrups as he settled into a still scarily fast but more balanced canter. They cantered twice round the school, with Ginty more and more in control; finally, blowing hard, Moth would have liked to stop but to make her point Ginty rode him on for another circuit. Only when she was ready did she ask him to trot, then she made him circle, change the rein, then sat and asked him to canter the other way. This time she was in total control, Moth was naturally energetic and bouncy but listening to Ginty all the way. Finally, she trotted again, and for five minutes Moth circled and looped and changed rein "like a perfect little dressage horse" as Gemma said admiringly. Ginty asked Moth to halt, and Gemma patted his sweaty neck. "I thought you were a goner when he did his handbrake turn, but when you got him back he was amazing!"  
Ginty grinned back at Gemma. It had been both exciting and satisfying to ride like that, and she felt aware that she had gone up a notch in Gemma's estimation. "His mouth is lovely and soft," she said, in acknowledgement of the work Gemma had done long-reining him. In the success of the moment they were all pleased with each other.  
As Ginty slid quietly off Moth, landing as lightly as she could so as not to startle him, they heard Mrs M's voice outside the door, "Can I come in now girls?" She pulled open the heavy school door. "I was watching through the peephole. Wasn't he super? Really well done, Ginty!"  
As they walked back to the yard, Mrs M said, "I've just had your mother on the phone, Ginty. You might have warned me you had liberated yourself from your educational establishment without your parent's blessing."  
Gemma looked a question. "This young lady has run away from school," Mrs M told her. "And when I answered the phone just now her mother was somewhat irate with me. In fact, it's fair to say, she was considerably pissed off."  
Ginty flushed, dismayed. "Was - was she very angry?"  
"I've had far worse in my time so don't worry. But could you come into the house with me now, because we need to talk about this, don't you think?" Ginty nodded, dumbly. Mrs M didn't seem that annoyed, but maybe she was waiting for them to be alone.  
"Come and get a coffee yourself, Gemma, when you've dealt with Moth."  
"I won't thanks," said Gemma, tactfully. "I'd better keep going because we've got the farrier coming and we'll be holding horses all afternoon."  
Ginty followed Mrs M into the house. "I'm sorry I didn't say about school," she started. "Only.." She stopped. There was nothing she could say that was going to sound good.  
"Good Lord, I'm not worried about that. I couldn't keep my two in school half the time. They used to sneak out at lunchtime, and get the bus home, check I wasn't around and then be out on one of the horses all afternoon! Course, Daddy used to encourage them - used to say he'd left school at fourteen with no exams and look where he'd got. The Ex wanted me to send them to boarding school but I don't really hold with that. No, I don't blame you for wanting to leave, only if I'd _known_ I'd have been a bit more prepared to fend off furious parents."  
"Sorry," said Ginty again, surprised. Mrs M had been far more annoyed with her over forgetting Theo's brushing boots once, than she was over _this_.  
"Well, your mother wants you to ring her back. I suggest you do it tonight because I'll be out and you can have the phone in the study and the armchair and be comfortable about it."  
Ginty didn't expect it to be an armchair sort of conversation but she nodded meekly.  
"Before you speak to her have a proper think about what you actually want, Ginty. I gather you've burned your bridges with that school of yours, but there are other schools and these exams do mean something after all. But I did wonder... well, if you like it here, that is..?" Mrs M paused and looked at Ginty hopefully.  
"Y-yes, I do," said Ginty hurriedly, wondering where this was leading.  
"Well, you could always sit the blessed exams at the college in Antrim, if you wanted to have a go at them. You'd have to do reading for them in the evenings of course - but there's those study guides, aren't there? I'm sure Tom only passed his because he crammed those books the nights before. And you must have done most of the work for them already - isn't this term mostly mocks and revision?"  
"I don't know," said Ginty slowly. "I'll think about it." She knew her teachers at Kingscote took a very dim view indeed of commercial study guides or 'Let's Revise' type books. And she couldn't imagine putting that much effort in after a day at work when she was exhausted. And for what - even if she scraped passes it wouldn't be worth anything next to the straight As her family would expect.  
"Well, just thought I'd suggest it. Your family may have other ideas entirely."  
Ginty's thoughts were gloomy as she went back out to work. On the plus side, Mrs M hadn't been cross at all with her, which was extraordinary really. But on the other hand, the only reason her mother was ringing must be because she'd spoken to Dad, and she was going to have to wait until the evening to find out what he'd said.  
Luckily for Ginty the farrier arrived before Gemma could ask her what was going on. With her stomach churning already at the thought of what her father must have said, she didn't think she could bear talking about it.  
"Can you start by holding Moth for Mal. He might be better behaved while he's still feeling tired," asked Gemma. So Ginty held onto Moth while Mal prepared his hooves for his new shoes. The farrier was of average height and trim build, but with huge muscles across his shoulders and upper arms. Moth intensely disliked having his feet done, thrashing about like one of Patrick's hawks in a bate, thought Ginty.  
"He hates it as much as I hate the dentist," said Ginty, holding his headcollar in what she hoped was a firm grip.  
"I don't suppose you try sitting on your dentist the way he's sitting on me," grumbled Mal, somewhat muffled, then as Moth relented and picked his foot up, he added more cheerfully, "Though I don't suppose the dentist would actually _mind_ you sitting on him." Ginty, realising that a remark that would have been sleazy coming from Spencer, was clearly a joke coming from Mal, grinned.  
"So whereabouts in England are you from then?" Mal asked, but his idea of the geography of England was so vague that when Ginty told him, he didn't know where it was anyway. Moth, taking advantage of their relaxed concentration, struck out with his near fore leg. As Jim was already holding up his off hind, Moth was left teetering precariously on his remaining diagonal pair. Mal hung on, swearing roundly at him, and Ginty said, "Come on, don't be a fool, Moth." Moth lost the battle of wills and put his front foot down, but to show he hadn't given in willingly he tossed his head up, catching Ginty on the nose. Blood cascaded dramatically.  
"Gem!" called Mal. "I've broken your new groom!"  
While Ginty sat on a straw bale with a lump of cotton wool under her nose, Gemma took over holding Moth.  
"I've got a new trainee starting next week. He's coming from England too," Mal told them. "He'll be the right age to annoy you, maybe, Ginty. Too young for Gemma."  
"Hang on, I might fancy a toy boy," answered Gemma, lightly.  
"You're not old enough to have a toy boy, Gem." said Mal.  
"Oh, I don't know. Not rich enough more like..." said Gemma mournfully.  
Moth allowed the rest of his shoes to be fitted without further incident. Ginty's nose stopped bleeding although it still throbbed rather. Between her sore nose, and trying to hold her own against both Mal's banter and horses who objected to having their feet done, the afternoon passed quickly without Ginty having time to worry about the impending phone call. It was dark before the farrier drove away, and Ginty started evening stables with a growing sense of dread. When she had last spoken to her mother, on the morning she had arrived in Ireland, her mother had been angry and startled, but relieved more than anything to hear from her. Now she'd had a week to simmer. And her father - Ginty's mind baulked like a frightened horse, not even wanting to think about it.  
But however slowly she gave the horses their hay, and swept up, and cleaned tack, the work did come to an end; Mrs M did go out to her meeting leaving instructions about pies and Agas; and the phone sat like a loaded gun on the study table. Her hands shaking, she started dialling.  
"M-mum? It's me.."  
"Ginty! At last!" Her mother sounded unnaturally brisk.  
"Mum, I'm so sorry..."  
"It's too late to be sorry. You've caused endless worry and trouble to everyone. You haven't given a thought to anyone but yourself, have you? The staff at Kingscote were put into a terrible position by your disappearance; they certainly don't want you back and at one point I thought they were going to ask me to take Nick and Lawrie away. They're both under a shadow now because of you. Not to mention the money you've wasted! Why didn't you tell us you wanted to work with horses and you could have done your exams this summer and left in the usual way without all this fuss and wasted expense!"  
"Money - I don't.."  
"We still have to pay for the full term even though you've run off! If you'd even told us at Christmas and left then, we wouldn't have been obligated to pay for this term! But when we're struggling as we are.. How could you have been so thoughtless?"  
"I didn't know.."  
"Because you don't think! You didn't think about me, you didn't think about your sisters or your friends or the staff.." Mrs Marlow's voice tailed off.  
"Mum?" Ginty felt her tears start and could do nothing to stop them.  
"So, your father, well, we've decided that you've made a choice and now you've got to stick to it. So it's no use deciding that you don't like it and you want to come home and go to school again. You've left home and now it's up to you."  
"So I can't come home again? Ever?"  
Her mother's voice wavered, but pressed on, "Well, you can come home for visits, maybe. But darling, I shouldn't even try visiting until you've made a success of things. You've thrown everything we've done for you back in our faces so now you're going to have to work hard to be welcome here again.  
And Ginty - I'm sorry, - we've decided to sell Catkin."  
"Sell him!"  
"Look I don't want you thinking we're being terribly mercenary selling him to recoup the money your wasted term has cost us. It is _partly_ that. But you can't have thought we'd be able to go on keeping an animal that you'll never be at home to ride."  
"I - I thought.. You'd give him to Lawrie or - or Nick.."  
"Well, your father and I have spent a long time discussing this very seriously. There has to be some sort of punishment for the way you have acted. You cannot behave in this heedless way without there being very serious consequences. Unfortunately the consequences don't affect just you. But that's life, as you'll find out soon enough."  
Ginty had been trying to cry quietly so it didn't sound in her voice, but she gave up all pretence now. "Mum! Mum, will you even write to me? Can I write to you?"  
And Mrs Marlow's voice must have gone a bit shaky because she said very quickly, "I'll pack up your stuff and send it on. I've got to go now, Ginty. Of course I'll write, darling." And that was that.

  
  



	5. Moving On.

Ginty, naturally competent and capable at most things, found that the routine work she had to do was getting easier by the end of her second week. She would never be able to say that she actually liked mucking out or tack-cleaning, but she found that once you got into the rhythm of the work, you could do the tasks automatically while you thought about other things. The only trouble was that all her thoughts kept running on Catkin. Of course she could do without him, she kept telling herself. She had chosen not to have him at school last year after all. It was just when she thought of home, she thought of Catkin; his head looking over the stable door in the yard, nickering softly when he saw her. It wouldn't seem like home without him, she told herself unhappily, then remembered that after what her mother had said it wasn't actually her home any more. It was just a place where she would be tolerated for occasional visits, like an unpopular distant relative. But if she couldn't physically go back to Trennels, she at least wanted her mental picture of it to stay the same, so that she could see it in her imagination looking unchanged. And even more than home, Catkin meant Patrick - Catkin and the Idiot Boy grazing in the orchard while she and Patrick read 'The Tempest'; galloping across the Crowlands following Regina; hunting side by side all day, jumping the same fences together even when the others were looking for gates...  
" _Ginty!_ " Ginty jumped out of her thoughts, startled.  
"You were miles away!" said Gemma. "When you've finished that box can you go and ride second lot for Craig today. I've told him this had better be the last time 'cos we're doing so much more with our lot now."  
Ginty was secretly relieved by this. It was fun riding out on Rupert, but the last few times Craig had put her on a big chestnut gelding called Hannibal. He had been named after Hannibal Lecter because of his habit of trying to bite chunks out of people. Ginty had come to dread pulling up his girths as he swung his long neck round to snap at her; she had two nasty bruises on her left arm where she hadn't been quick enough dodging him. Once on his back he was amenable enough as long as he was allowed to lead the other horses up the gallops; he pulled like a train and wouldn't settle behind the others. Even going in front, Ginty found her right arm ached riding him because he was one-sided and leant hard on the right side of his mouth. "I won't have any arms left between tacking him up and riding him," she said to Brendan as they walked back after galloping.  
"When are you going to let us buy you a drink, Ginty?" asked Craig. "You've done a grand job for us. Spencer's come to ride out every day since you've been around and we can't normally get the lazy bugger to ride work more than once a week."  
Spencer swore cheerfully at Craig, then added, "Come for a drink, Gin. It can't be much craic in the evenings with only those two old boots for company."  
"Gemma's not old!" said Ginty.  
"She is a boot though, right? Come on, you want to meet a few people, have a bit of craic with us," and worn down by his persistence Ginty finally agreed to go to the pub that evening.  
When she returned from riding Hannibal she found Gemma had tacked up Theo and Finn, one of the four-year olds. "I thought as it's thawed we'll go round the roads today," said Gemma. "If you keep Finn on the inside, Theo will protect him."  
They rode along quiet lanes. Ginty found it comforting that whenever Finn spooked at a bird in a hedge, or litter caught on a twig, or sometimes at nothing at all, he merely bumped into Theo's immovable bulk walking steadily alongside. After a while, his eyes stopped being out on stalks at every fluttering leaf, and he blew a long, relaxed snort down his nostrils.  
"That's better," said Gemma.  
They hacked quietly along, talking. Their conversations mostly revolved around the horses, the farm or the local area, with Gemma filling Ginty in on local knowledge. Ginty had been relieved to find neither Mrs M or Gemma were the type to ask unwanted questions about home or family, but were merely casually interested in what she chose to tell them. Mrs M was impressed that Ginty's 18 year old sister was running the farm, but any questions she asked were mostly agricultural. To Ginty's embarrassment she often found she couldn't answer the most simple of these, - 'How many acres does she farm?', 'Do you make hay or haylage?', 'When will the first lambs be ready to go?', and she often had to assume an air of breezy confidence and just say an answer that sounded plausible. Gemma was most interested in the ponies that Rowan was breeding, to which Ginty could say quite honestly that she didn't know much about it. Rowan had bought three in-foal New Forest ponies which would foal that spring, but as Ginty hadn't been home for Christmas, she hadn't seen them herself.  
"The timing will work out well for you, won't it?" said Gemma. "If you get a bit of experience working in other places, then go home when the foals are three and you could produce them for your sister."  
"Oh, Rowan would never want _me_ for that!", said Ginty, startled into being more honest than she would have liked. Luckily, Finn picked that moment to be dramatic about a scrap of plastic bag caught on a hedge. He cannoned into Theo, who rolled an eye and flicked an ear at him, Finn chose to see this as a threat and leapt back into the hedge. By the time order was restored, Ginty was able to say in a casual, amused voice, "Rowan and I don't get on. We couldn't possibly work together."  
"Oh, shame. That's a pity for her, because it's hard to get people who are good enough to school young ponies, but light enough to ride them."  
"I don't know if I'll want to still be doing horses by then, anyway."  
"You are enjoying it now, though aren't you? I know it's not the most fun time of the year when it's cold and wet, and there's no competitions.."  
"No, it's not that. I mean, I am enjoying it. And I know I've got lots more to learn. I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing right now .... It's just, it's not exactly what I planned."  
"I don't think many people do end up doing what they planned with their lives. What else had you thought of doing?"  
"I don't know really, but I used to think I'd go to university to study history."  
"A lot of my school friends went on to university, but most of them have ended up in dull office jobs. And they're not even much better off than me by the time they've paid rent and transport.... And they don't get paid to look at a view like this every day either!" They had turned into the farm road that cut across the stud. On both sides, fields stretched gently towards the horizon, broken only by hedges or small copses of trees, until they merged into the hills, blue in the distance.  
"But if that's the way you're thinking you'd better do what Mrs M suggested and sit your GCSEs at the college," added Gemma. "Whatever you might decide to do, you'll need something on your CV to prove you can read and write!"

 

XXXXXX

 

Ginty found the evening at the pub unexpectedly enjoyable. Spencer was on his best behaviour - very charming and gentlemanly. When they were at the bar getting drinks, Spencer asked her what she would like to drink, and she asked for a Diet Coke. This was not from any virtuous idea of Not Drinking Alcohol, but because she honestly had no idea what to ask for in a pub. Brendan, overhearing Spencer give the order to the girl behind the bar, said, "Don't be so tight Spencer. Put some Bacardi in it for the poor girl. She's got to put up with you all night."  
Spencer shrugged and smiled, answering, "Better get your wife a double Bushmills then!" He didn't drink alcohol himself during the racing season, he explained to Ginty, "Too many calories when I'm watching my weight. And I like to stay clear-headed.."  
"Yeah his body is a temple!" joked Sean's girlfriend.  
"Quite a small, skinny temple," pointed out Brendan's wife.  
As well as Grainne and Michelle, Sean and Brendan's other halves, Ginty was introduced to a constant stream of other people, who came, eddied around their group, then flowed on elsewhere. After a while their faces and names blurred into one another, but Ginty kept smiling and laughing, grateful for their easy friendship. In truth she didn't always understand everything that was said around her; she wasn't used to the Northern Irish accent accent yet, and most of the talk was about people she didn't know. But she was secretly pleased at the thought that her parents would certainly not approve of some of the people she was mixing with, like the woman with the mass of red curls and the very low-cut top who was leaning over Spencer, asking him for a smoke. She had a low, husky voice and she made asking for a light seem like the sexiest thing. Ginty made a mental note to tell Lawrie that that was how it was done if you were acting a femme fatale, realised she probably never could and thought she must stop herself from having Thoughts About The Family She Would Never See Again.  
"You alright, Ginty?" asked Spencer.  
"I'm just tired," Ginty excused herself. Spencer immediately offered to take her home. To her secret relief, Grainne and Sean asked for a lift, and squeezed awkwardly onto the not-quite-a-seat in the back of Spencer's sports car. If Spencer was annoyed at having two chaperones in the car, he managed not to show it.  
"Would you like to come to the Hunt Ball next week? We'll all be going - we'll have a table for everyone from the yard. It's usually a good laugh," he asked, as he walked her to the farmhouse door.  
"I don't know. I haven't got anything to wear for something like that," she said doubtfully.  
"Borrow something. You could come in your wellies and still be the most beautiful girl there," he said. Aware of two pairs of eyes watching from the car, he gave her a dutiful peck on the cheek. "I'll pick you up next Saturday at 7."

XXXXX

Ginty didn't have to go to the ball in wellies. The box of her clothes which her mother had packed up arrived that week. Ginty was disappointed that there weren't many of what the Marlows called 'holiday clothes' in the box - jeans and jumpers and old shirts - things she desperately needed to work in. She supposed they had been kept to pass on to Nick and Lawrie. However to her surprise, her 'Doris' dress from last year's party was in there. She tried it on cautiously. She was only slightly taller than she had been when she wore it last, and she was skinnier in the waist since she had been working at Sweetmore. The only places that the dress seemed tighter were her bust and hips, and the effect of that, as far as she could judge in the mirror, was exciting in a rather grown-up way. She had to remind herself that the last time she had worn this dress, she had been falling in love with Patrick, and she ought to feel terribly sad wearing it again; but however hard she tried to think Sad Thoughts about it she couldn't help feeling excited that she was going to a party again.

XXXXXX

The Hunt Ball was the most terrific fun, thought Ginty. Spencer and Ginty shared a table with Craig, Sean, Brendan and their partners, also two other point-to-point jockeys and their girl-friends. Ginty had been relieved to see it wasn't the sort of dance where you had to wait for people to ask you to dance. Some of the older people there had danced rather formally in couples to the jazz music the band played earlier in the evening. Then the band gave way to a disco; all the girls on their table screamed 'oh we _have_ to dance to this one! Coming Ginty?', and they spent most of the rest of the evening on the dance floor. Occasionally the men would join them, rather self-consciously, but would usually retreat to their table and their drinks after a song or two. Ginty had been drinking Bacardi and cokes, (she had remembered the name to ask for from the pub) but she wasn't aware of the drink having any effect on her while she was dancing. She was just having the most amazing time, and the other girls were such a good laugh, and the music was fantastic. It was only towards the end, when Spencer came to claim her for the slow dances, that she felt rather deliciously out of herself, and then it was rather dreamy to lean against Spencer as they rocked slowly on the dance floor. "You're so lovely," he murmured in her ear.  
The cold air was rather a shock, as they came outside afterwards, and the carpark surface seemed to be going up and down in a peculiar way. Spencer took her arm. "It's these shoes Gemma lent me," she explained. "They've blistered my heels."  
It was quite a long drive home, but she must have drifted off, because she woke with a start, when the engine stopped. "Where are we?" she asked.  
"Nearly home. There's the gates, see. Come and look at the view, it's beautiful. You can see all the stars."  
They were parked in the lay-by opposite the back entrance to the farm, where several gates opened into the fields. It was a cold, intensely clear night and the sky was bright with starlight. To Ginty, looking up, the immensity of the sky seemed to be whirling above her head. She stumbled and Spencer caught her, then in one soft motion he was kissing her. At first his kiss was gentle, and Ginty felt curious enough to let him go on. "You're gorgeous, Ginty," he whispered and kissed her again. She started to not like it very much, it was wet, and slobbery, and their teeth clashed, and his nose was squashing hers so she couldn't breathe. She pulled away with a jerk. She could hear the sound of a car in the distance. Spencer's eyes glittered strangely. "Come on, Ginty, we're only kissing," he said, and his voice was the coaxing voice he would use on a nervous young horse, but his arms enclosed her like a trap. Now she was really hating it but he was still kissing her and she felt smothered and panicky and sick. Doris' stitching gave way at the back of her dress with a treacherous rip. One of her arms flailed free as she struggled and her hand caught him on the side of his face. Spencer swore. "Don't be such a little prick-tease," he said, rubbing the side of his face. Car doors slammed behind them.  
"Good evening?" said a cool voice. Ginty and Spencer, both panting, turned to see Gemma calmly surveying them. Mal stood by the open door of the car. "You alright, Ginty?"  
The red-headed woman from the pub was sitting in the passenger seat. "Come on Spence, can't you find someone your own age to play with?" she drawled.  
"Ginty can walk up the drive with me now," said Gemma. "Thanks for the lift."  
Spencer scowled and muttered something inaudible, shot a distinctly unpleasant look at Mal and Gemma, then got into his car and drove off with a screech of tyres.  
Ginty walked back in a haze of sickness and embarrassment. She had to turn and be violently sick in the ditch. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, after the second time.  
"Don't worry. We all have to learn the hard way," said Gemma. "At least it's your day off tomorrow."

XXXXX

Ginty didn't remember very much about getting to bed after that. She spent Sunday in bed, alternately retching and wishing she could die, then curling up with mortification and misery. Mrs M didn't comment but rather tactfully made chicken soup for tea.  
On Monday morning Ginty felt nervous meeting Gemma's eye, but Gemma just grinned and asked her if she'd recovered. It wasn't until they were riding out later that they had a chance to talk.  
"Who was that woman in the car with Mal?" she asked.  
"That's Hazel. She's his wife," said Gemma.  
"Oh. She doesn't seem like a person who'd be a wife."  
"No. She's not very good at it actually." They rode in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Ginty had come to the rather puzzling conclusion that while she didn't like what Spencer had done, she quite liked the feeling it had given her that he had wanted to do it. She couldn't quite straighten that thought out, even in her own head.  
"Thank you," said Ginty eventually, in a small voice. "For Saturday night I mean .."  
"Oh, don't worry. We didn't save you from a fate worse than death. Spencer would have given in even if we hadn't been there. Not very graciously maybe."  
Ginty didn't respond, and Gemma said lightly, "Don't worry about Spencer saying anything. He won't, I'm sure."  
"It's not that. It's just... well, I had a boyfr.. well, my friend Patrick at home, well, he never did anything like that."  
"I'm sure he had more manners than Spencer!"  
"No, no, I didn't mean that exactly. Only .. well, he never tried to do anything at all.. And I can't help wondering why .."  
"You must have kissed though?"  
"No. Just held hands sometimes."  
" _Really?_ Mind you it's hard with your parents keeping their beady eyes on you, isn't it? I know what mine were like - 'keep the door _open_ , Gemma!'"  
"But we were on our own all the time. All day sometimes.."  
"Really? Are you sure he's not gay?"  
Ginty looked blank. Gemma misread her expression and said hurriedly, "I was only joking. Of course, I don't know him at all.."  
"He can't be gay. He's not at all like they are.."  
"Like what are?"  
"Well, like they are on the TV. You know, Julian Clary and people. He's nothing like that."  
"Oh, Ginty, I don't even know where to begin with that! Look, have you heard of ----?" Gemma named a famous event rider. "Well, he's gay. And -----, he is. You don't have to look like Boy George and walk round with a sign over your head, you know!"  
Ginty was silent for a long time.  
"He's not religious is he?" Gemma asked at last. "Like those Bible-Bashers in American high schools who tell the world how proud they are to wait till they're married..?"  
"Well, he is Catholic. He goes on about that rather."  
"Hmmm. I think Spencer's mum would say he was a good Catholic boy so I'm not sure that means much. Unless he said that was why?"  
"He never said.. But I think now he prefers my sister to me." It was a surprising relief to say this out loud to someone else. She felt as she had when she was very young and Ann had shone a torch under the bed to show her that what she thought was a monster was really only a pile of dirty laundry.  
"So what did you actually do all the time then, if you weren't doing what comes naturally?" asked Gemma, curiously.  
"We used to just talk about things . And we went riding a lot, and hawking mostly."  
It was Gemma's turn to look blank. Ginty explained. She finished, "But of course, half the time Regina just went off wherever she wanted, and we had to ride round looking for her for hours."  
"Well, your Patrick certainly knows how to show a girl a good time. At least Spencer took you dancing before he jumped on you."  
Ginty smiled reluctantly. It was true that Patrick had never asked her what she wanted to do, but neither had she ever said 'let's not go hawking today, let's go to the cinema'. Because she could see that if falconry was your thing, and you were doing it with someone for whom it was their thing, well that would be far more special than any ordinary kind of date. And maybe it would be like that for Patrick with Nicola. She could see now that she had been trying to be that kind of person. And she hadn't even realised that _that_ was what she was doing until Patrick had seen through her. She remembered how the year before she had played at being a certain sort of person to please her friend Unity Logan, pretending to be terribly sensitive and frightened of the sea. Only she had _known_ all along that that was what she was doing with Unity. Whereas with Patrick she hadn't. And she didn't see how you could stop doing something if you didn't even know you were doing it. Either she would have to think carefully before she said or did _anything_ , ever again, to check that she wasn't just saying it to please them. Or only spend time with people who were very sensible and good, so that it would be a Good Thing to be trying to be like them. She sighed. Neither course of action seemed very appealing or very practical. But clearly, she was going to have to do something.  
"Cheer up," said Gemma, breaking into her thoughts. "If your sister likes hawking it might take her years to find out that he's really gay. And now you've got a chance to find someone who's actually interested in _you_!"


	6. A Death In The Family.

Fauntleroy took the job of waking Ginty up very seriously. He progressed from bounding in when Mrs M opened the door, to scrabbling and jumping at her door as soon as he thought it was getting-up-time. One day by lucky chance, his paw hit her door handle at the right angle, and to his astonished joy the door swung open. Delighted with his new skill, he discovered he could come in and wake her up whenever he wanted. Being only six months old, his idea of Time To Get Up was not much after five o’ clock. At first, this meant Ginty could impress Mrs M by being up early, in the kitchen with a pot of tea ready made on the Aga. However, she resented missing the extra hour of sleep she could have had, until Mrs M suggested she just let Fauntleroy sleep in her room. Happy with this promotion, because up till now he had been Most Junior Dog, he slept on the rug in her room and didn’t stir until at least six. Ginty was secretly pleased with his adoption of her. Dogs at home had gravitated towards Nicola or Peter. She had always rather thought that she wasn’t a dog person, but clearly Fauntleroy had seen through that.  
She was never going to love early mornings, but there was something satisfying about coming out into the cold dawn, seeing the pink glow of sunrise in the grey sky, and the pool of light from the feed room door as Gemma made up the breakfast feeds. The horses were all stirring in their boxes, heads over doors, and nickering softly for their food.  
“Mrs M said to say, is it ok if I take longer for lunch today, because she’s going to give me a lift to Antrim College, to find out about entering for my GCSEs,” said Ginty, as she picked up Theo’s feed bucket. Theo took it as his right that he was always fed first. “Also, she says, there’s unaffiliated dressage at Willows Farm Sunday after next. Do we want to enter any of them?”  
“Alright. Who do you think ? Not Finn – he doesn’t believe he can fit round a twenty metre circle yet,” answered Gemma.  
“Moss,” said Ginty instantly.  
“Hmm. Well if you actually _want_ to be scraped off the arena floor….”  
“And Robin, he’s going really well.”  
“Ok, if you take those two, and I’ll bring Nora. Do you know how to plait?”  
“I sort of know _how,_ only they always turn out lumpy.”  
“Right, well you can get some practice in this week. Now you better give Theo that food before he bangs his door down!”

XXXXX

“You’re coming to the end of your months trial now, Ginty. This is the point where you can tell us that it’s not for you, and leave with no hard feelings on either side,” said Mrs M, as they drove into Antrim. “Only there’s no point us finding out about these exams if you’re going to be leaving us.”  
“No, I want to stay,” Ginty assured her. “I’m enjoying it, really.”  
“Well, that’s good news for us anyway,” said Mrs M casually, and Ginty flushed with pleased relief.  
The visit to the college was – eventually – a success. At first Mrs M hovered in the foyer, leaving Ginty to do the asking, but the receptionist behind the desk was clearly an idiot and Mrs M couldn’t let an idiot go unshouted at. Matters were complicated by Ginty not knowing which exam board the courses she had studied at Kingscote were with, nor whether any of the coursework she had done at Kingscote was going to count. She couldn’t do all the subjects she had been doing at Kingscote (“not much call for Latin here ”) and it was going to cost more than she had realised to enter for five GCSEs by the time the college had added its admin fee. At this point, to her surprise, Mrs M whisked out her cheque book and paid for everything.  
“Shall I pay you back from my wages?” Ginty asked.  
“No, I’m still terrified of your mother. She clearly thinks I’m an unscrupulous employer of child labour as it is.”  
The idea of Mrs M finding anyone terrifying was incomprehensible to Ginty. She was always nervously waiting to be bawled at by Mrs M for not fitting a nose-band correctly, or not sweeping up properly.  
“It’s me my parents are furious at,” Ginty confessed.  
“Well, as my two constantly remind me, children have to be free to go and do their own thing. You can’t keep them under your wing forever. Your mother’s lucky that she’s got your sister staying on the farm.”  
“My sister Karen still sort of lives there too. She’s in one of the farm cottages.”  
“So what does she do then?”  
“She’s married. She was at Oxford, but she left to look after her step children.”  
“And what did your parents think of _that_?!”  
“I’m not sure really. I know Mum didn’t want to stand in their in their way, because apparently Grandmother tried to stop her and Dad getting married, and she didn’t want to put Kay through that,” said Ginty. She had been so caught up in Patrick all that Easter holiday; she realised now that she had no idea what her mother had really been feeling.  
“I don’t know why your family are so cross with you. You seem to be following in a long tradition of not doing what’s expected of you.”  
Ginty smiled. “That’s perfectly true actually. Except Giles, he’s in the Navy.”  
“And he’s the golden boy, is he?”  
Luckily Ginty didn’t have to comment on this as they had just pulled into the local Equestrian  & Farm Supplies shop. “Now while I get the wormers and everything else on Gemma’s list, you go and find a pair of wellies your size,” ordered Mrs M to Ginty’s surprise. Her borrowed wellies were very leaky, and Gemma had told her to put her feet in plastic bags inside them – which worked to the extent that she usually had damp rather than soaking wet feet. The wet and cold combined were giving her chilblains which throbbed and itched painfully when she came into the warm in the evenings. Clearly Mrs M had noticed both bags and sore feet.  
“Thank you,” said Ginty, unexpectedly touched, as Mrs M paid for everything.  
“No foot, no horse, you know,” said Mrs M. “I’m sure the same applies to grooms.”

XXXXX

Gemma persuaded Ginty to come with her to the pub one night, “to meet some _sensible_ people” as she put it. “There’ll be some music, fairly bad music admittedly, but no-one takes it seriously.”  
The pub was starting to be busy as they went in, and the first face Ginty recognised in the crowd at the bar was Spencer. She would have shuffled quickly past him without meeting his eyes, but he put out his hand and stopped her.  
“I’ve been hoping to meet you. I wanted to say sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said contritely. His eyes were very blue, very sincere. “I forgot how young you were. I hope there’s no hard feelings?”  
Ginty felt confused. He had managed to apologise while still making it sound as if the whole thing had been her fault somehow. “Of course not,” she muttered, pushing past him to join Gemma. A band were setting up in the back corner, and she recognised Hazel and Mal, and Stewart, the farrier’s new apprentice, sitting at the nearest table. Hazel grinned at her, and said, “Spencer up to his usual tricks, was he? Talking when he should be listening?” Stewart smiled at her in a relieved way, probably glad not to be the youngest person there. He was good-looking in a boy-band kind of way, with dark hair cropped short and spiky, and studs in his ears; which Ginty had never seen on a boy before. He was easy-going company; early in the conversation he dropped in the information that he had a girlfriend at home, and then Ginty relaxed and chatted with him as easily as she might with Peter. It was odd, she thought, never really having known any boys apart from her brothers and Patrick. Stewart was nineteen, and full of plans for the future. When he had done his apprenticeship, he was going home to work with the old farrier who had given him a start, hopefully to take over when he retired.  
The band started idly tuning up, and Hazel walked over to join them.  
“Good evening everyone,” she breathed huskily into the microphone. “Welcome to another evening with Crazy River.”  
The band weren’t technically very good, as Gemma had said, but they were entertaining, and popular with the crowd in the pub. Hazel’s singing was smoky and sultry, although her voice wasn’t strong it was expressive and yearning. They played a mixture of pop covers and Irish folk crossover music. When they took a break, Ginty was introduced to Conor, Hazel’s brother, and the band’s frontman.  
“Are you coming Gem?” he asked Gemma, and Ginty was surprised to see Gemma opening a battered old case and putting the pieces of a flute together.  
Seeing Ginty’s look, Gemma grimaced and said, “Conor’s very good at twisting peoples’ arms. He’ll be asking you if you can sing in a minute.”  
Overhearing this, Conor asked, “Can you sing, Ginty?” and Ginty, laughing, said she couldn’t.  
“My big brother’s always trying to replace me. He doesn’t like letting his little sister play in his band, do you?” teased Hazel.  
“Well, I have to have back-up ready in case you go off on another of your little adventures,” Conor answered, then as Hazel’s face looked stony, he added, “Come on sis,you know I love you really!”  
“Gemma sings,” pointed out Ginty. “She sings to the horses.”  
“I know,” said Conor, “But sadly Gem keeps that particular light firmly under its bushel.”  
“I don’t do singing in public,” said Gemma, firmly. “The horses can’t say anything rude.”  
“I can play drums,” said Stewart, hopefully.  
“Can you indeed? That’s very useful to know – if Joe will relinquish his sticks we’ll let you have a go later.”  
For the second half, the band mostly played traditional Irish songs. Ginty didn’t know much about music, so she couldn’t tell how good Gemma’s flute playing really was, but she liked the sound it made fluttering over the other instruments.  
“What do you do on your days off?” asked Stewart.  
“I haven’t done much of anything so far,” admitted Ginty. “But I have to go into Belfast to get some books this week.”  
“Oh, would you fancy some company? I haven’t been there yet,” said Stewart, “ I could give you a lift in, if you don’t mind riding on the back of my bike?”  
“I’d love that, thanks,” answered Ginty, with enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to go on a motorbike!”

XXXXX

 

If either Stewart or Ginty were the type to pay attention to the news, they might have had misapprehensions about going into Belfast. As it was neither of them were in the least surprised that Belfast was a pleasant city to go shopping in, with wide streets and attractive architecture, with only the security guards at the entrances to the big, indoor shopping centre as a reminder of its troubles. They went to the book shop first, and Ginty was glad she had come with Stewart as he was able to tell her which were the best study guides to get.  
“It’s going to cost an awful lot,” complained Ginty, looking at the stack of books. “And I still need the set texts for English.”  
“Don’t you know anyone who did them last year that you could borrow them off?” suggested Stewart.  
“Stewart, you’re a genius! Why didn’t I think of that? There’s my sister Ann, and I bet she kept all her notes as well. She’s that sort. I’ll write to her tonight!”  
Once the books were paid for, Stewart suggested going to the Art Museum.  
“Do you like art?” asked Ginty. “I don’t mind but I’m not into art really.”  
“Force of habit, I suppose,” explained Stewart. “I spent two years doing Art A-level.”  
They found the museum, and wandered round the gallery. Nothing in there seemed very exciting to Ginty.  
“I don’t really get a lot of these,” she confessed to Stewart.  
“No, I don’t really. I just look at them and try and think what Ffion would say about them. That’s how I got through my A-level to be honest. I only did it because Ffion’s into it and I was trying to be all arty and interesting and persuade her to go out with me.”  
“Oh. Did she find out?”  
“Well, it was pretty obvious really that I didn’t have a clue. Although I did like the hands on stuff, modelling and sculpture and actually making things. I just got lost when it came to talking about this sort of thing.”  
“Didn’t she mind? That you’d pretended?”  
“No, of course not,” said Stewart, sounding surprised. “Why should she? …. I’m done here, aren’t you? I’ll just get some postcards to send her.”  
Outside, walking back down the road, Stewart said, “There’s supposed to be a famous old pub somewhere we could go and look at. If you like. Only – I don’t know about you but I could really go for a McDonalds right now. What do you think?”  
Ginty had never actually been to McDonalds. Colebridge town council had always been determined to keep its charming market town streets free from the influence of big American chains.  
“Oh yes, _let’s_.” she said. “ And then, shall we see if there’s anything on at the cinema?”

 

XXXXXX

 

Ginty wrote her letter to Ann, but then it occurred to her that Ann would have left last year’s books at home. She had better ring home and ask her mother to send them. If only she could guarantee that her mother would answer the phone and not Rowan, because she wouldn’t know what to say to Rowan, whereas Rowan would certainly have something scathing to say to her. It would be best, she decided, to ask to use the phone during their morning ‘breakfast’ break, when hopefully Rowan would be out on the farm.  
Nervously, she dialled. The ring tone. Then “Hello. Trennels.” A familiar voice, not her mother.  
“ _Ann_? It’s Ginty.”  
“Ginty! How are you?” said Ann, pleased and friendly.  
“Why are you at home? It’s not half-term yet is it? I just sent you a letter!”  
“No, half-term is week after next. Mummy asked school if I could come out for a week to help with Aunt Molly and the funeral. Only Kay can’t leave the family, and Rowan can’t leave the farm at this time of year. And I can take some reading with me to do. Only apparently Aunt Molly’s almost had a nervous breakdown and can’t cope with anything.”  
“What do you mean _funeral?_ ”  
“It’s on Friday, it has to be a proper Catholic Mass of course….”  
“ _Ann!_ Whose funeral? Who’s died?”  
“Grandm… Ginty, has no-one told you?”  
“No. Has ….. has Grandmother died?”  
“Oh, Ginty, I’m so sorry. I had no idea you didn’t know. Oh, I shouldn’t have told you like this. I’m so sorry. This is terrible.” Ann’s voice trembled.  
“When did she die? Oh, Ann, don’t cry! Not for me, I mean. Just _tell_ me.”  
“The day before yesterday. Aunt Molly found her dead in bed. She must have died in her sleep. She wouldn’t have felt anything, the doctor says.”  
Ginty thought about the formidable old woman slipping away in the night, and realised honestly, that although the news was a shock of course, she didn’t feel particularly distraught. Her grandmother had been kind in a rather chilling and formal way when Ginty had stayed with her one half-term. Mostly she remembered the way she smelt, the bath salts and soaps she sent for presents, the expensive French perfume she wore, the fresh flowers she kept on occasional tables around the flat in Paris.  
“ _Ginty_. Are you ok?”  
“Yes, yes, I think so. Ann, would you do something for me? Get some flowers for the coffin from me. Not a wreath, a bunch. And proper smelling ones, not those stiff ones that don’t really smell of anything. I’ll pay you back, whatever it is.”  
“Yes, of course I can do that. That’s a lovely idea. … Look, Gin, I’m sure Mummy was going to ring you, or write, only she’s been frantic getting ready to go to Paris, and she’s been very shocked by the news herself..”  
“Poor Mummy. Will you say I sent my love?”  
“Of course. I have to go now, Rowan’s driving us to the airport. Will you be alright?”  
“Yes, honestly Ann. _Go on_. I’ve got to go now too.” And abruptly Ginty put the phone down.  
Gemma and Mrs M were finishing their tea in the kitchen. She had to get up to her room without them seeing her. Because if they asked her why she was crying, she would have to say that she had just heard that her grandmother had died. And they would be instantly concerned and kind and sympathetic - and far too nice for her to bear. She couldn’t let them be. Because it would be somehow fraudulent to let them think she was heartbroken over her grandmother’s death. Because in all honesty, she wasn’t. It was a shock, and must be sad for her mother, but Ginty hadn’t known her well enough to feel genuine grief. And she couldn’t tell anyone why she was really crying. That no-one had thought she ought to be told that her grandmother had died; that no-one remembered her even when something like this happened; that she really wasn’t part of the family any more.


	7. 'It's Not Fair.'

Kingscote broke up on the Friday lunchtime before the half-term week. Ann and their mother had returned from Paris a couple of days earlier but it hadn’t been worth Ann returning to school for the remaining day and a half. So it was only Nicola and Lawrie who emerged from Westbridge Station, and saw with surprised relief that Rowan was waiting with the Landrover to save them the walk home.  
Nicola had been looking forward to this half-term holiday. Unfortunately Patrick’s half-term had been the week before, so he wasn’t going to be around; but her father had arrived home on leave yesterday. It was going to be the first full week that they had been at Trennels with their father at home for at least a year and a half.  
“Father didn’t want you to be late for dinner,” explained Rowan. “Not that he felt sorry for your poor old legs walking up the hill. So how is school?”  
“Most peculiar being only the two of us there,” said Lawrie.  
“You mean apart from the four hundred other girls? Or has there been a sudden mass exodus?” enquired Rowan.  
“No, you know, only us being Marlows there,” said Lawrie.  
“What a sad decline for the dear old school. From six down to two. Do you think they’re all massively relieved?”  
“Counting the terms till me and Lal have left, you mean,” said Nicola with relish. “Thank God that’s the last of _that_ family!”  
“I don’t see why,” said Lawrie. “They’ll be asking me to go back and present the prizes at Open Day when I’m a famous actress.”  
Nicola groaned exaggeratedly, but Rowan asked, “And will you?”  
“Oh, no. I shall be far too busy,” said Lawrie, complacently.  
Rowan brought the car to a halt in front of the house. “Say your hellos and wash your hands, then it will be dinner. Mrs Bertie’s killed the fatted calf for Daddy, so we can’t keep it waiting.”

XXXXX

 

Dinner was, as promised, an especially good one. Cautious, dutiful questions about Aunt Molly and the funeral were asked and mostly answered by Ann. Then Nicola and Peter bombarded Captain Marlow with questions about his ship and what he had been doing, during which Mrs Marlow looked relieved not to have to talk much.  
As pudding was cleared away Captain Marlow announced that he had asked Karen to come and join them for coffee. There was something they all needed to be told about. Lawrie waggled her eyebrows at Nicola, who shrugged back. Peter, who had been worrying that Captain Marlow had somehow found out about the Oeschli business, was hugely relieved when his father grinned at him and said, “This doesn’t actually concern you Peter. But there’s no point you rattling round the house on your own, wondering what we’re all talking about, so you may as well stay.”  
Dogs barked in the hall, Ann slipped out and reappeared with Karen. While greetings were exchanged between her and the twins, Mrs Marlow fetched a small leather case from the sideboard.  
“Go on Dad,” said Peter, decidedly chirpy now he knew he wasn’t involved. “We couldn’t be more agog.”  
“It’s about Madame Orly’s estate,” started Captain Marlow. “The flat and most of her savings and investments have been left to your Aunt Molly, so that doesn’t concern us. She did however, leave her jewellery, and apart from the pieces she left Pam and Molly she seems to have gone through it a year or two ago, deciding which piece she wanted each of you girls to have.”  
“Us!” burst in Lawrie. “What have I got?” and was quelled by a look from Rowan.  
Captain Marlow glanced at Karen and Rowan with an oddly wry look, “We thought before we told you we should find out what each piece was worth, just so you know what you’ve actually got. So Pam and I went to the jewellers in Colebridge today, just to get a rough estimate. He’s not really an expert on some of the older pieces, so if you were to choose to sell yours we’d need to get a more specialised valuation.”  
He paused. “We don’t know if Madame Orly knew the relative or actual value of any of these. I imagine some of them were given to her many years ago. Clearly some of them are worth more than others, but we can’t know if there was any intention behind that.” He shared a look with Mrs Marlow.  
“The question is,” he continued. “Would you rather be told separately what you’ve been given? Because if you’re going to compare notes afterwards, we might as well do it openly here and now. Only I don’t want any wails of ‘unfair!’”  
Hastily they all shook their heads and protested that they wouldn’t dream of it. “Although I probably _won’t_ think it’s fair,” pointed out Lawrie. “But I won’t _say_ anything,” she added virtuously, as the others all glared at her.  
“Let’s go from the oldest down, then,” said Captain Marlow briskly. “Karen.” He handed her a ring box. “Ruby and diamond, small stones, not the best quality, but worth around four to five hundred.”  
Karen looked pleased, “That’ll get the car through its MOT this year. We thought we were going to be stuck!”  
“Rowan.” Another small ring box. “Sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, quite a good sapphire, probably between six and eight hundred.”  
“I could almost wear this,” said Rowan, admiring the midnight blue of the sapphire. “If I had anything to wear it to.”  
“Ann.” A gold locket, decorated with small stones. “No particular value to the stones, but it is gold, and it’s art nouveau, very collectable. Probably in the region of fifteen hundred.”  
“Oh!” Ann said, in consternation. “ _I_ couldn’t possibly have this.”  
“It’s yours, whether you like it or not, Ann,” said her mother. “Your grandmother wanted you to have it.”  
“Nicola.” Lawrie heroically restrained a complaint about always being the youngest twin. Captain Marlow handed Nicola a much larger case than the others had been. She opened the faded velvet box and gasped. Diamonds glittered and dazzled.  
“Here Lawrie,” said her father, seeing she could barely contain herself. “Yours matches Nick’s, anyway.”  
Lawrie opened her case eagerly. “A diamond tiara!”  
For a moment they were both speechless, as they gingerly lifted necklace and tiara out of their respective boxes. Mrs Marlow said, “ I think Mother was rather stunned after she saw you both in the Christmas play. I think she thought you might both have somewhere grand to wear them one day.”  
“Lend me your necklace when I’m going to the Oscars, and I’ll lend you the tiara when you’re singing at Covent Garden?” said Lawrie, delightedly.  
“I won’t be doing that!”  
“Well, some prize-giving for winning a round-the–world sailing race or something. Or if you didn’t want it….?”  
“Anyway, as to their value,” interrupted their father. “You’re looking at about two to three thousand each.”  
Lawrie and Nicola simultaneously gasped. Captain Marlow said, “We’ll be keeping them in the bank until you decide what you want to do with them. And you won’t be allowed to sell them until you’re eighteen, if that’s what you eventually decide to do.”  
“Oh no. I’m going to wear mine,” said Lawrie. Nicola too, although she couldn’t imagine where she would ever wear something so impossibly sparkly, felt a curious urge to feel those diamonds around her neck.  
There was still a small box in the case. “What’s Ginty got?” asked Peter, curiously. The others waited anxiously. By tacit consent Ginty had not been mentioned all evening.  
“We’ll keep this in the bank too,” said their father crisply.  
“Can’t we see it?” said Lawrie. “We all know what everyone else got.”  
Captain Marlow frowned, then said, “Very well. I suppose that’s fair. But once you’ve had a look there’s to be no going on about it.” He opened the box to reveal an enamelled pendant. They were all silent, looking. For it was clear that although the pendant didn’t blaze and shine as the diamonds did, they were seeing something exquisitely beautiful.  
“Can I?” asked Karen, lifting out of its box, and turning it to look at the back.  
“What is it, Kay?”  
Karen looked at her father. “It is what I think, isn’t it?”  
He nodded. “It’s Faberge.” They all gazed. “Put it back, now, Karen.”  
“Can you tell us what it’s worth?” asked Rowan in a carefully neutral voice, and almost absently her mother said, “Probably up to twenty thousand pounds. Possibly more.”  
“I don’t expect any of you to talk about this to anyone. Is that clear?” said Captain Marlow. “Including Ginty, for the moment at least.”  
“Why shouldn’t Ginty know?” Ann said suddenly. It was unusual for Ann to question her parents. Her father’s eyebrows rose, rather as if one of his lowliest midshipmen had cheeked him.  
“We all know about ours. Why shouldn’t Ginty know?” repeated Ann.  
“Because we don’t want Ginty unsettled; she’s made her choice to do this job so she needs to stick at it without distractions or thinking she can throw it all in again,” explained her father.  
“Why would she do that? You’ve already said we can’t sell them till we’re eighteen,” persisted Ann, doggedly. A flush rose in her cheeks, betraying her discomfort.  
“I don’t want her playing at this job thinking she’s got money to fall back on if she doesn’t try her hardest,” said her father firmly.  
“That’s not fair! Grandmother wanted her to have it; she should be allowed to know! She was Grandmother’s favourite – we all know that. If she could have chosen someone to be at her funeral she would have wanted Ginty, and Ginty didn’t even get told that she had died!”  
Mrs Marlow gasped, dismayed. “Oh no, I never thought! I just rang Miss Keith and assumed that was it, you’d all be told…”  
“Pam, don’t upset yourself. You had enough to think about,” said Captain Marlow.  
Ann carried on remorselessly, “Couldn’t _you_ have thought of it?” she asked Rowan directly.  
“Telling Ginty things isn’t top of my to do list. I do have a farm to run,” snapped Rowan defensively. She was astonished by the sudden blaze of angry contempt in Ann’s eyes.  
“You never do think anyone but yourself needs to know anything, though, do you?” said Ann, with cold fury.  
“Ann,” said her father, “That’s enough. I don’t suppose it made any difference to Ginty hearing the news a couple of days later. You may feel sorry for her, Ann, but I don’t think she has enough responsibility yet to react sensibly to being told about this legacy.”  
Ann pushed her chair back and stood up. Her voice shook, “Responsibility! Ginty makes a mistake that only affects herself, and she gets cut off and treated as if she’s an idiot! Other people do irresponsible things that mess up other peoples’ lives, and risk people dying and they get away with it!”  
“Whatever do you mean, Ann?” asked her mother. Her father glanced curiously round the table. Karen just looked bemused. The others were rather intently looking at their coffee cups and not at each other.  
Ann seemed suddenly shaken by how far she had gone. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. But I’ve decided I’m going to see Ginty. I was thinking of it anyway, because she wants me to send her some books, and I thought I could go and visit. So I will.”  
“Oh Ann, you can’t,” said her mother doubtfully.  
Ann said, “You wouldn’t mind me visiting a school friend over half-term. It’s no different. I’ve got the train and boat fare in my savings. If I go tomorrow morning I’ll be back in plenty of time to go back to school. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and pack a bag.”  
There was a stunned silence after Ann left the room. Nicola leapt up and collected the coffee things. Peter helped her, rather unnecessarily.  
Karen stood up, saying, “I must get back. Fob was playing up when I left and Edwin’s got more work to do this evening.”  
Rowan went to the sideboard and without asking, poured herself and her father a brandy. Lawrie who had been trying on her tiara, reluctantly took it off and handed it over to be put away with the others. Captain Marlow locked the case away in the cupboard, saying, “I’ll take them back to the bank tomorrow morning.”  
“If you’re going into Colebridge early, you might give Ann a lift to the station. If she’s set on this trip,” said Mrs Marlow.  
“Yes, alright. That was all rather uncharacteristic of Ann, wasn’t it?” Captain Marlow eyed the rest of his family. “I’m not in the business of digging up skeletons. So I’ll assume Ann was talking generally rather than accusing anyone in particular. Unless you think there’s anything I need to be told?”  
Silently, they all shook their heads. They would mostly have preferred to be honest with their father, but as Nicola reflected, they couldn’t very well confess all without dropping Giles in it too, and he wasn’t there to speak for himself.


	8. Dressage.

Breakfast the next day was a quiet meal. Ann ate silently, only speaking when her mother asked her questions about trains and ferry times. Nicola and Lawrie quietly discussed their plans for the day, which concluded with them agreeing to take Catkin and Idiot Boy for a long ride up to the Crowlands. Rowan, overhearing, said, “For goodness sake, don’t do anything stupid. The Reynolds are bringing some people to look at him at the end of this week, so we don’t want him hopping lame because you’ve been trying to recreate Becher’s Brook.”  
Lawrie would have liked to renew her ongoing argument about ‘why did he have to be sold’ and ‘why couldn’t he be kept for _her_ to ride’ but one look at Captain Marlow’s face convinced her that this wasn’t the moment. There was an awkward silence, broken by Peter tactfully saying, “I still miss Daks being here for holidays. Can’t you borrow him again, Nick?”  
“Actually, I thought I might invite them both for the Easter hols if Ma didn’t mind,” said Nicola. “What do you think, Mum? Could Esther come for some of next holiday? She’s had to go home to meet the new baby this week, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. Her mum is only letting her bring Daks home if he stays out of every room the baby ever goes in because they think it might be allergic to animals.”  
“Yes alright, I don’t see why not,” answered Mrs Marlow, absently. Talking about Daks eased the tension, until Lawrie asked, if _Nick_ was having Esther, couldn't _she_ have Tim, there was plenty of room after all because there was Gin’s room empty….  
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” said Captain Marlow, who had been deep in thought, and fortunately not paying any attention to Lawrie. “Have you had any leave since you took over the farm, Rowan?”  
“ _Leave_?”  
“It’s been what – eighteen months? Have you had a holiday at all?”  
“Do you mean actually going away somewhere? No, I haven’t thought of it really.” This was said in a studiedly casual tone that didn’t convince anyone listening that she hadn’t thought of it often and hard.  
“Well, you _should_ have. There must be a relatively quiet time of year when the farm workers could be left to it for a week or so,” said her father. “And before you protest, that’s an order.”  
“In that case, aye aye sir!” said Rowan, slightly stunned. “Olive said she was going skiing with Gina in her last letter. Maybe I should look into it!”

 

XXXXX

Fred Studdart had never allowed the Marlow children to plait their own ponies before hunting or going to shows. No horse or pony was leaving the Trennels yard unless it was properly turned out to his own high standards. So Ginty had to spend the week before the dressage competition learning how to plait, and practising in spare moments, until eventually Gemma said that her plaiting 'would do’, seeing as how it was only a very small and unimportant competition. So early on Sunday morning, with the mucking out done and the brood mares turned out, Ginty was busy plaiting. Moth had proved surprisingly responsive to Ginty’s affection; he positively enjoyed being groomed, and now he stood with his head obligingly low while Ginty fussed over his mane. Unfortunately Robin, normally an amenable animal, had created a mini-disaster by rolling enthusiastically after Ginty had plaited him, completely filling Ginty’s beautiful plaits with shavings. Ginty was close to tears when Gemma returned from lunging Finn. Luckily Gemma just laughed and helped her pick all the shavings out and showed her how to restore tidiness with a damp sponge. “Take Theo round the short block, while I do Nora,” she said. “He’s sulking in the back of his box because he knows we’re going to a competition and not taking him.”  
It was a bright, late February day with a distinct promise of spring in the air. Hacking Theo round the farm, Ginty relaxed and started to look forward to the competition. Gemma had warned her that the horses they were taking had never been to a show before, so would be highly excited and ‘a bit bumpy’ to ride; but Ginty had no nerves on that account. The main thing was that everyone would know that they were only bringing out young horses for an educational outing, so there would be no expectation of winning or being placed. Ginty suffered from a lack of confidence in herself when it came to competing; her nerves and her fear of failure often caused her to perform badly. But she didn’t have to worry at all today; as Gemma said, “We’ll have done well if we stay in the arena.”  
By late morning, the horses were ready, the lorry packed, and Ginty was changed into a borrowed hacking jacket and cream jodhpurs, outgrown years before by Patrick or Thomas.  
“I’ll come over in the car in time to see you go,” said Mrs M, helping them load the horses.  
It was only a twenty minute drive to Willows Equestrian Centre in a car, half an hour in the lorry. As they pulled into the lorry park they could see a couple of other big lorries with the names of studs or well-known riders emblazoned on them, but most of the vehicles there were smaller trailers.  
Gemma and Ginty lowered their lorry ramp, and the three young horses snorted and stamped, all rather surprised at the turn life was taking.  
“We’ll go and register, then you’ll need to get on Moth pretty soon.” Horses were being warmed up in a large, outdoor arena. Most of the riders there were riding club people, with only the odd professional schooling a young horse. “The going is very deep in there so they get tired quite quickly,” pointed out Gemma, “which is useful for us if they try to explode!” The actual dressage tests were being ridden in a indoor school. Ginty followed Gemma up some steps into a long viewing gallery at the side of the school. They watched through the dusty glass as the next competitor entered the school, and trotted round in the strip between the walls and the white boards that marked out the arena. The horse, a scrawny chestnut, was horrified by the judge’s box in a short gallery at the far end and refused to go near that end at all. The starting bell pinged, and the rider valiantly turned her horse up the centre line to start her test. However the chestnut had other ideas, and napped towards the door, whipping round and half-rearing. After a short struggle, the bell pinged again, and the humiliated rider gave up and left the school. Ginty watched, relatively complacent. She didn’t think either Moth or Robin would let her down like that.  
Ginty loved the sights and sounds of horse shows, and however, small and low-key this one was, it still made her feel happy and excited to be there. She just wished she knew people the way Gemma did so she could smile and nod casually to the other riders.  
Moth was the first to go out of their three. Gemma tacked him up while Ginty shoved her hair into a hairnet and pulled on her borrowed boots. At first Moth didn’t want to come down the lorry ramp, then changed his mind and with an enormous leap, launched himself off the bottom of the ramp. Gemma held on, just. “It’s a bit like flying a kite,” she commented as she led him round, Moth bounding and leaping. “If we can get four feet on the floor at the same time you’d better get on. I’ll lead him up to the ramp this time and you can use it as a mounting block.” Once Ginty was on his back, Moth calmed down enough to walk into the warm-up area, still snorting in alarm and with his eyes popping. Ginty put him straight into a brisk trot and worked him as hard as she could for the next ten minutes, until she felt him relax and respond. Soon she was absorbed in schooling him, moving between trot and canter in supple turns and circles. Occasionally the other riders warming up tutted at her in irritation, as lost in concentration, she forgot the school rules and didn’t give way in time to horses coming the other way. It was a surprise when Gemma, waiting in the gateway, said, “You’re next.”  
Moth entered the indoor school, and trotted round the outside meekly enough. The bell rang, and Ginty turned him up the centre line. Moth, seeing the judge’s box from a new angle, froze, then jinked . Held between Ginty’s legs and hands, he shied first one way, then the other, so that what should have been a straight line became a zig-zag. “Pack it in,” Ginty growled at him, as he refused to stand still in the halt. Moth trembled indignantly, but moved off surprisingly obediently, passing the offending judge’s box with no more than a suspicious roll of his eye. Gemma, watching from the gallery, was impressed by how well Moth and Ginty were going. Ginty made small inexperienced mistakes, which were going to lose them marks, but she was containing and guiding Moth’s energy and impulsion in a beautifully controlled and harmonious way. And when it came to the final turn down the centre line, Moth trotted a ruler straight line, halted submissively for the perfect count of four while Ginty executed a smart salute, then relaxed into a long rein to leave the arena calmly, while Ginty beamed with pleasure.  
“Wasn’t he fantastic!” she said, to Gemma outside. At that moment, there was nothing in the world she would rather do for the rest of her life, than be a dressage rider. Several people, coming out of the gallery, stopped to ask who Moth was, and complimented Ginty on the way he had gone.  
“It’s a pity Mrs M wasn’t here to see,” said Gemma. “I thought she’d be here by now. Something must have come up. I’ll go and tack up the other two, while you cool him off. I hope he’s tired enough to cope being left on the lorry on his own.”  
Back at the lorry Moth was sponged off and rugged up, then Gemma led Robin down the ramp. Ginty had to hold both him and Moth, as Gemma went back for Nora. Robin was trying to whirl round and barging into both Ginty and Moth, stamping hard on Ginty’s foot in the process. Much to Ginty’s relief, Gemma held onto both Robin and Nora while Ginty took Moth back up the ramp. She settled him with his hay net, then hurried back to Gemma who was being pulled in two different directions by the two excited young horses.  
“We could have done with Mrs M’s help. I wonder where she is. I hope the mare hasn’t started to foal,” said Gemma. “If I stand here with Nora, Robin might stand still long enough for you to leap on. Good. Now if you could wait there..” and they were both on their respective mounts. Robin was an eye-catching chestnut with a broad white blaze and four white socks, and large, slightly lopped ears, which gave him a friendly, genial expression. He was usually a calm sort, but entering the warm-up area, he was overwhelmed with excitement and launched himself into orbit, bucking all the way across the middle of the school, scattering alarmed riding club ladies to either side. Arriving at the far side he snorted in surprise and stopped, and Ginty, equally surprised, nearly shot over his head. Ginty gathered him up, and rode him on, until, his first burst of energy over, he started to feel tired. She let him walk, and looked round for Gemma on Nora. Nora was a thoroughbred mare, nicknamed Bambi Legs because she was still ungainly and gangly at times, but today, Ginty noticed with envy, she was looking very composed and elegant.  
“You’re next in,” said the steward at the gate, and Gemma rode over. “Good luck,” she said. “I just saw Mrs M arrive but she’s gone straight into the gallery. Didn’t want to distract you just before you do your test.”  
Robin was sluggish and slow to respond because he was tired. Going into the indoor school perked him up though, so Ginty managed to coax a safe but unspectacular test out of him. She grinned at Gemma, who was next to go, and walked Robin around, waiting for them to finish. She caught sight of Mrs M, coming down the gallery steps, talking to someone who was following her. Someone who looked strangely familiar. She did a double take.  
“Ann!”  
Ann smiled at her, rather shyly. “Hello Gin. How are you?”  
“Look who I found walking up the drive as I set off,” said Mrs M cheerfully. “I thought I’d better bring her along! I thought you might be pleased to see her!”  
And Ginty thought she’d never been so pleased to see anyone in her life.


	9. Family Visit 1.

The three girls went back home in the lorry, while Mrs M said she would wait for the scores. Ginty was bursting to talk to Ann about home and Kingscote, although Ann, unfailingly polite, didn’t like to have a conversation involving just the two of them while there were three people in the lorry cab. Still, while Gemma concentrated on reversing out of the way of a riding club lady who couldn’t reverse her own trailer, Ginty found out that the netball team had won most of their matches, Nicola and Lawrie had been in the team but Miranda West had been Captain again. And on the last day of the half term, it had been announced at assembly that next term’s production was going to be a musical, so Lawrie was furious. It hadn’t finally been decided which musical they were going to do, but anyone interested in taking part should prepare a song from ‘The Sound of Music’ ready for auditions.  
“Gosh,” said Ginty. “There’s nothing for Lawrie in that.”  
“Well, there’s the woman that the Captain brings home to marry, that all the children don’t like. She doesn’t sing,” said Ann. “And Lawrie would make something of her. But Miss Keith would want someone older, anyway. But Nick was told to prepare one of Maria’s songs ready.”  
“Really! I can’t imagine Nicola wanting to be Maria one little bit!” said Ginty.  
“No,” said Ann, doubtfully. “But I get the impression that if she does this, and does it in the ‘right’ spirit, it will rehabilitate her in ‘their’ eyes – they might start to forget about the conduct mark and let her do things again. She _ought_ to be games captain one day.”  
Ginty looked rather consciously guilty. Nicola’s conduct mark was more or less her fault. All the same, she had to bite her lip to suppress a smile, because the thought of Nicola having to act _Maria_ and pretend to _like_ it, not doing her out-cutlasses-and-board look, just so she could be games captain one day was both awful and funny. What would Patrick say? Would they have long earnest discussions on the Catholic opinion of stopping being a nun so you could marry someone like Edwin - but with twice as many children? She was in serious danger of bursting into giggles, but luckily, Ann, who unlike Ginty did read newspapers and follow current affairs, was asking Gemma sensible questions about Northern Ireland. Ginty hid her secret glee to be enjoyed later in private, and attended to their conversation.  
“Do you ride too?” Gemma asked Ann politely.  
“No. At least, I learned a bit when I was younger, but I never got hooked the way the others did.”  
“Ann plays the piano,” offered Ginty loyally, fearing (wrongly) that Gemma might think Ann dull.  
“Only for pleasure,” said Ann hurriedly. “I’m not much good really.”  
“You did your Grade Eight last term,” protested Ginty. “And you go in for the Colebridge Festival competitions.”  
“Colebridge Festival?” asked Gemma. “That sounds familiar. I think my dad judges at that sometimes. It’s his idea of a holiday.”  
“Really?” said Ann. “It was Clarence Bradshaw last year.”  
“The very same,” said Gemma with a mock-grimace. “Did he reduce everyone to tears?”  
“No. He was really helpful. And kind actually. You mean he’s your father?”  
Ann sounded impressed. Ginty said “Sorry. Who are we talking about?”  
“Clarence Bradshaw is a famous piano player and teacher. He’s head of music at Plymouth University now,” explained Ann. “So did you have a lot of music at home?”  
“Well, we all got taught the piano before we could talk even. And another instrument seriously, and others a bit. So great disappointment all round when I was a pony-mad teenager and just wanted to work with horses.”  
“I can imagine,” said Ann, thoughtfully. “It would be like our brother not wanting to join the Navy.”  
“Mind you,” added Ginty, lightly. “Has anyone ever actually _asked_ Peter if he _wants_ to be in the Navy?”

XXXXX

Once back at the yard, Ann helped them finish their work for the evening, by fetching and carrying and pushing wheelbarrows. Mrs M arrived back soon after them with their scores and comment sheets. None of their horses had been in the placings, but their scores were quite respectably in the middle of the field. And if Moth hadn’t lost so many marks in his first movement, he would have been placed, said Mrs M, very pleased.  
Ann was secretly starting to feel very tired. She had slept only fitfully on the ferry from Liverpool to Belfast. Then it had been a very long walk from getting off the bus to Sweetmore Stud, having been helpfully misdirected by the various people she had asked for directions. Neither had she eaten since breakfast. So she was relieved when the work was done, and Ginty took her into the kitchen where Mrs M had already made a huge pot of tea. Earlier in the car with Mrs M she had politely mentioned her intention to find a B and B for the night, only to be robustly told that she would do no such thing, of course she would stay at the house.  
“Could you get some bedding from the linen cupboard, Ginty,” Mrs M said now, “and make up the bed in the room next to yours for Ann. I’m afraid I haven’t got a stick of food in the house though. So if you two don’t mind Chinese, I thought I’d nip out and get us all a takeaway?”  
Having assured her that they would indeed like Chinese takeaway very much, Ginty and Ann made their way upstairs. Between them they made up the bed.  
“What did Mum and Dad say about you coming?” asked Ginty, stuffing the duvet into its cover. It occurred fleetingly to Ann that a couple of months previously Ginty would have sat and watched while she made the bed.  
“I think Mum was quite pleased in a way, once she realised I was definitely coming. She _has_ been worried about you. And Daddy…. well, he did give me some money for the trip when he dropped me at the station. So he must not have minded too much.”  
Ann rummaged in her bag. “I’ve brought all these books. I wasn’t sure what you needed so I ended up bringing everything. I can go through them with you later if you like. And Aunt Molly sent you this.” She handed Ginty a small, framed photo. Ginty looked. It was herself and her grandmother, taken by Aunt Molly the time she stayed with them in Paris. Madame Orly stared rather rigidly out of the picture while Ginty herself laughed charmingly at the camera.  
“Gosh, I look so _young_!” exclaimed Ginty.  
“It was only a year ago,” pointed out Ann. “It was on the mantelpiece in their sitting room so Grandmother must have liked it.”  
“How is Aunt Molly?”  
“She seemed a bit happier by the time we left. But she’s terribly lost. All those years keeping to Grandmother's rules and routines, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself now. Mum asked her to come and visit so hopefully she will.”  
“She could go off on a Caribbean cruise and meet a rich widower,” suggested Ginty lightly.  
“I don’t think that’s her sort of thing really,” said Ann. It was true that Aunt Molly had seemed dazed and distraught in the week before the funeral. But there were also times that she and Ann had fallen into conversation, and Ann had uncomfortably realised that perhaps she had more in common with her aunt than she did with her own mother. “She was saying there was a Catholic hospice that she thought she might volunteer at, now she had some time. But when she’s had time to think about it, she might want to move back to England.” Ann paused, wondering whether to broach the subject of the legacy yet. But she felt stupidly tired and she didn’t know how long they would have to talk before dinner. “Should we lay the table before Mrs M gets back?” she asked.  
Ginty laughed. “You’re not at home now! But we could put some plates out if you like. And make some more tea. Mrs M gets through gallons of tea in a night.”  
“She’s very nice, isn’t she? I thought she was quite scary when she stopped me walking up the drive, and asked where I was going. But as soon as I said who I was, she couldn’t have been more friendly.”  
“She’s like that. If she thought you weren’t grooming a horse properly you’d get yelled at for half an hour, but random sisters turning up – no problem!”  
The tea and the table were ready when Mrs M returned, laden with takeaway bags. “We’ve got the Superior Banquet for three,” she announced. “And some of the best ice-cream in the world for pudding. Ginty gets through at least a tub of Maud’s Pooh Bear ice-cream a week,” she told Ann, “not that you’d know it to look at her.”  
As she unwrapped the food, Mrs M asked, “It’s your day off tomorrow, isn’t it Ginty? I was thinking, if you two would like to have a good lie-in while I help Gemma on the yard, then I could drive you somewhere. You might as well see a bit of the country while you’re here. Unless you drive already Ann, then you could take the farm car? No? Well, let’s see what the weather’s like. If it’s miserable I’ll drop you in town, and if it’s nice we’ll decide in the morning.”  
They were all hungry and the food was delicious, so for a while they all ate in silence. But Mrs M was the type of person who can’t resist asking teenagers what they are going to do when they leave school, so soon Ann was being cheerfully interrogated.  
“I’m going to nursing college,” she explained and waited for the politely disdainful reaction she was used to from her family.  
“Gosh, you’re brave,” said Mrs M. “I can cope with sick and injured animals but humans make me go all funny. Probably because they wail so much more. Any particular specialism?”  
“I can’t decide at the moment,” said Ann, hesitantly, because she wasn’t used to people being that interested. “I was thinking about midwifery, or being a health visitor at first. But now I’m looking into psychiatric nursing. I’m thinking of doing some voluntary work this summer to get some experience.”  
“Well, if you’re into midwifery, you might see a foal born tonight,” said Mrs M, nodding at the monitor on the kitchen side. This showed a grainy black and white image of a horse walking restlessly round her stable, seen from above.  
“What is that?” asked Ann.  
“CCTV in the stable. That’s Ruby. This will be her eighth foal, and her last probably. She knows all about it, bless her.”  
As they ate ice-cream, then tidied up and loaded the dish-washer, they kept glancing at the monitor. The mare circled her stable, stopping and raising her tail constantly. Next time they looked she was lying down, then getting back on her feet again. As she lay down again, Mrs M said, “She’s close now. I’m going out to check everything. If you’re fairly quiet, you two could come and watch.”  
They peeped round the edge of the stable door while Mrs M went in, talking gently to the mare and stroking her sweaty neck. Ginty and Ann had seen lambs born at home so they weren’t entirely unprepared for the sight of what looked like a wet, pink bag appearing out of the mare, although on this scale it was all bigger and messier. Then she lay down heavily, and turning her head, whinnied softly and with great excitement, as her new foal slithered out. In seconds, she was back on her feet, still whickering and snuffling and huffing all over her new baby.  
Mrs M stepped back towards the door to let mother and baby get to know each other. The foal was already sticking out its long, knobbly legs and trying to struggle to its feet.  
“Do they always do that?” whispered Ann. “Start whinnying at the baby as it’s coming out?”  
“Ruby always does. but no, they don’t all do it.” The foal made a heroic effort and wobbled onto its legs. Mrs M deftly wrapped her arms round it and helped guide it to the right place to have its first drink. “It’s a girl,” she said. Ann and Ginty watched in admiring silence, more moved by seeing the foal’s birth than either of them would have cared to admit. Only when the foal, full of her first milk, collapsed trustingly back in the straw to sleep, did they quietly slip away to go to bed themselves.


	10. Family Visit 2.

Ann was woken next morning by a gentle tapping on her door. She groped for her watch and saw with surprise that it was past nine. At home they would have sat down to breakfast over half an hour ago.  
“It’s only me,” said Ginty, sliding the door open. She briefly disappeared, then came in carrying a tray. “Breakfast in bed,” she said proudly. On the tray were two mugs of tea, and a mountain of hot, buttered toast. “I’ll make some more in a minute. Only I thought if I did any more, this lot would go cold.”  
“This is loads,” said Ann. “Are you sure we ought to eat in here? I don’t want to make everything crumby..”  
“Don’t fuss. It’ll be fine. Here you go. Then when you’ve woken up a bit you can tell me why you really came to see me.”  
“Oh. _Well_. A few reasons actually.” Ann took a long gulp of her tea. “To be honest, I started thinking about it in Paris. Because we didn’t talk about it much, but Mummy seemed so bewildered by what you’d done. And why. So I thought if I could talk to you , maybe I could understand myself, and maybe I could help Mummy see too.”  
“Oh.” There was a pause in which they both crunched toast.  
“And then,” Ann hesitated. “Well, I did have an idea in my mind of trying to persuade you to come back. And if you said sorry, and, well, you know, sort of _explained_ everything …..”  
“But Daddy said I couldn’t come back. I’m not the prodigal daughter. They’re not going to fall on my neck and kill the fatted calf.”  
“I know.”  
“I never got that story anyway. What about the older brother? It wasn’t fair, was it?”  
“Well,” began Ann, then decided that scriptural explanation could wait. “The thing is, since I got here, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea any more. Because, well, you seem different. Happy, I mean. As if this has been good for you.”  
“I suppose I am.”  
“It’s like you’ve found your place.”  
“Well, I’m not saying I love all the mucking out, but actually, I do feel … ‘right’ here somehow.”  
Ann took more toast, thinking. She said eventually, “Only is this what you think you want to do permanently?”  
“Not just being a groom, no. But Gemma says good riders who don’t mind riding the difficult horses can get rides on other peoples’ horses. To compete seriously, I mean. And then I could maybe teach a bit too, if I got my BHS exams. For now, I just need to get lots of experience.”  
“Oh. Only…” Ann didn’t know how to put her thoughts into words without potentially being rude about people who had been kind to her. As far as Ann was concerned, horses were beautiful animals but they were also an expensive luxury. She felt that working with horses was essentially looking after the pets of rich people. “It’s just I wonder if you couldn’t do something more, well, worthwhile, with your life. You're not stupid, after all.”  
“We can’t all be nurses, can we? You’ve got to have some of us falling off horses and being rushed into A and E for you to bandage up.”  
Ann smiled reluctantly, and decided that her own feelings were too complicated to explain.  
“I do know what you mean,” said Ginty. “But it’s not as if I had any particular plan about what I was going to do when I left school. And lots of jobs are quite pointless when you think about it. So I might as well be doing something that I enjoy. And I’ll be able to travel if I want – lots of grooms get jobs in Europe or America.”  
“What about university? I thought you wanted to read history?”  
“Only because … well, I don’t any more. And Karen was supposed to be doing all that and look how it worked out for her!”  
“Oh, but she’s got the children. She can’t regret them!”  
“Well, rather her than me, that’s all I can say! But my point is, that University would cost a lot of money and might not lead to anything. Whereas this way. I’m already earning and looking after myself. I know Dad’s angry about this term costing them for nothing, but in the long run I’ll have saved them _loads_ of money.”  
“Hmm. Because if you _wanted_ to train for something, or go back to college, you could. There’s something else I have to tell you,” said Ann. Then she told Ginty about the pendant her grandmother had left her.

XXXXX

 

For a long time Ginty said nothing except ‘ _Wow’_ and ‘ _Really?_ ’ Then she sat on the bed in stunned silence, while Ann tidied up the breakfast things.  
“Did you all get something too?” asked Ginty finally. Ann told her, adding that none of them could do anything with theirs until they were eighteen.  
“I think we should all wear them once, don’t you? Before anyone sells theirs. If they’re going to sell them, I mean.” said Ginty thoughtfully. “Someone will have to get married so we can all dress up properly. It will have to be Giles, I suppose.”  
“I don’t think Karen’s will last that long,” said Ann. She was looking out of the window. “Look, it’s a beautiful day. Shall we get dressed and go out?”  
“OK. Let’s go and see the foal.”  
It was such a mild, dry day that the mare and foal had been turned out into a small paddock to enjoy a few hours of spring sunshine. Ginty and Ann leaned on the fence and watched the mare cropping grass while the foal looked at the outside world for the first time.  
“I bet Mum wishes human children were as easy to bring up,” said Ginty. “Do you think _she_ ever wanted to do anything else before she met Dad?”  
Before Ann could answer they were distracted by the sound of hooves. Four of the racehorses were walking along the farm road towards them. Craig, on the horse in front, pulled up and four pairs of eyes stared curiously at them. “Well, what’s the craic, Ginty,” said Craig cheerfully. “Fresh and well you’re looking this morning.”  
“This is my sister Ann,” said Ginty. “And this is Craig, Spencer, Brendan and Sean.”  
“Good morning, Ginty’s sister,” they all chorused cheerfully.  
“I see looks run in the family,” said Spencer. “How many sisters did you say you had, Ginty?”  
“There’s six of us.”  
“You shouldn’t have told him that, Ginty. He’ll have to go and have a lie-down now!” said Brendan. The others laughed, but Craig, encountering an icy, blue glare from Ann, said hastily, “Well, we’ll get on now. Have a lovely day, girls!” and they clattered away.  
“They’re alright, really,” Ginty explained to Ann. “Apart from Spencer. He’s a bit of a creep.”  
The foal, curious about the other horses, had wandered away from her mother. Suddenly realising how far she’d come, she wheeled round and cantered back on bambi-legs. Safely back at her mother’s side, she reassured herself by having a good drink of milk.  
“Ann,” said Ginty. “The reason I left. The funny thing is, none of it seems to matter any more. It was stupid little things I was letting get on top of me… I don’t know why I minded so much.”  
“But you don’t want to come back?”  
“No. I’d like them to stop being angry with me. But I don’t want to come back.”  
As they wandered back to the house, they met Mrs M. “We’ve got a beautiful day, haven’t we, girls. Now, where shall we go?”

XXXXX

It had taken some time to decide where they were going. Mrs M had worried that two teenage girls might find anywhere without shops and cafes boring. Ann kept saying that they didn’t want to be any trouble, and she honestly didn’t mind where they went. It had finally been decided by Ginty mentioning that she hadn’t seen the sea for ages, and Mrs M saying, in that case, they would go for a drive to Islandmagee.  
Fauntleroy and Mrs M’s border terrier, Dorothy, were allowed to come with them. As the car pulled up in a lay-by, the dogs, smelling the sea on the air, made excited, whuffling noises. As soon as the door was opened they leapt out, and chased each other joyfully through the long grass.  
“If you don’t mind heights, there’s a bit of a walk you can do along the cliffs here. You can’t go all the way because it’s crumbling away, but the bit you can do is interesting.”  
They followed the path downwards. Shoots of green spring grass were pushing through under the dry, dead winter stalks. The tang of salt and seaweed came to them on the breeze. Ahead of them the sea glittered endlessly to the long dome of the horizon where it met the perfect blue of a spring sky.  
The dogs, running ahead, stopped and sniffed round a stone obelisk. “My favourite memorial,” said Mrs M. “If you can have such a thing.”  
They stopped and read the words engraved on the stone. ‘To the memory of Lance Corporal Walter Newell, Black Watch, who fell in action in France on the 13th July 1915. Erected by his friends with whom he spent many happy days at the Gobbins Farm. Captain WV Edwards, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’  
“Do you think they came on holidays here?” said Ginty.  
“The farmhouse is ruined too, now,” said Mrs M. “It always reminds me of a poem I learned in school – golden lads all coming to dust.”  
“They must have had lovely times here, mustn’t they?” said Ann. “Imagine if a place had memories.”  
They walked on to where the cliff path started. “I’ll stay here with the dogs,” said Mrs M. “I don’t want Fauntleroy to knock you off with his tail. We’ll take them to the beach for a good run after this.”  
Ginty and Ann walked through a rock archway and along a narrow path which hugged the cliffs.  
“I’m glad Peter’s not here,” said Ginty. “I don’t know if we can go much further.” They walked until the path seemed to crumble away to nothing, and stopped to gaze out to sea. A tiny white sail could be seen in the distance, and a few gulls soared. The restless sea quested endlessly at the rocks beneath their feet.  
“It _was_ mad, wasn’t it, running away like that?” said Ginty suddenly, as if she’d been carrying on their breakfast conversation in her head.  
“Yes,” said Ann. “It was a bit hard on Nicola and Lawrie.”  
“And you.”  
“Yes.”  
“I am sorry. About the way I did it. I’m not sorry about being here. But if I could have done it differently I would.”  
“People do stupid things sometimes. You’re not the only one.” said Ann, an odd, taut note in her voice. Ginty looked quickly at her.  
“The twins were being very mysterious after the Christmas holidays. Did something happen? I thought it was all about Nicola and Patrick..”  
“It was _all_ of them.” Ann burst out. “Except me – nobody thought _I_ needed to know that my own brothers might be drowned!”  
“ _What?_ ”  
“I can’t tell you everything, it involves other people. And Mummy mustn’t ever know, so neither must Daddy. But you remember Surf Rider?”  
“Is that the boat Daddy wouldn’t take us out in? Because it was built to be so fast it was dangerous?”  
“Exactly! And Giles and Peter took it out in the middle of _winter_. We didn’t know where they were. It was luck or – or- something that they didn’t die.” Ann remembered only too well her own frightened desperate prayers after she knew the boys were missing. And the fervent thanks that she still offered up every time she went to chapel. “It was all so stupid – and unnecessary. That’s why I get annoyed when they say _you’re_ irresponsible..” She paused anxiously, glancing at Ginty.  
“It’s ok. I mean, I know what they think. And it _was_ irresponsible of me. But I’m glad I’m here. So even if I could go back and change things, I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t.”


	11. Which Is Mostly About Horses.

Ginty felt very flat after Ann returned to home and Kingscote. Although everything she had said to Ann about being happy at Sweetmore was perfectly true, the absence of her sister’s friendly and sympathetic company, which she had only just learned to appreciate, left her bereft and strangely achey.  
Fortunately, the lengthening spring days meant an increase in activity and interest at work. Craig asked Gemma if Ginty could be spared to go racing on Saturday afternoon; both Rupert and Hannibal were having their first race of the season, and Ginty could experience an Irish point-to-point. Gemma, agreeing, suggested Craig might like Ginty to plait both horses up and get them ready to go, and Craig agreed as long as the others didn’t mind. Ginty was secretly indignant at Gemma volunteering her for more work, and she didn’t see why the others would mind at all. It wasn’t until they were at the point-to-point that she found out that each race had a best turned out prize, which went to the groom of the smartest horse. Hannibal, with a typical lack of gallantry, had rubbed out some of his plaits in the lorry; however, he stood remarkably quietly while she redid the worst ones.  
“He’s not like this at home,” she said to Craig.  
“He’s saving it up,” he said. “He knows what he’s here for.”  
Ginty was allowed to lead Rupert round the paddock, with Sean on his other side, in case he played up, as it was his first time. But Rupert, looking faintly astonished at the turn life was taking, walked round calmly enough, pricking his ears at the gathering crowd along the ropes. As the commentator announced that the best turned out prize went to the groom of Prince Rupert, the jockeys filed into the paddock and Craig called her over to where he and Rupert’s tweed-clad owner stood. Spencer, looking very dashing in the owner’s navy and white colours, was legged up. His face was unusually pale and concentrated but he gave Ginty his usual grin as she led him round. Liking him rather better like this, she felt a sympathetic squeeze of nerves as she followed the other runners to the exit from the paddock, and slipped Rupert’s leadrope so they could canter away.  
“Here,” said Sean, suddenly beside her and thrusting an envelope at her. “Your prize. Do you want to put it on him?”  
“What?” Ginty opened the envelope and saw a crisp ten pound note.  
“Five pound each way? It’s his first race, so the bookies have got him at a great price. We’ve all had something on.”  
“I don’t know,” said Ginty, doubtfully. She had only just got the money so it seemed rather reckless to let it pass through her hands so fast. “Oh, ok, why not?” she said suddenly and impulsively. They ran back to the betting ring, and Sean put the money on for her. Then, with most of the crowd, they ran to the hill near the winning line from where most of the course could be seen. In the far distance, the runners could just be seen, circling at the starting line.  
“How many times do they go round?” asked Ginty. She felt far more anxious watching, than she ever did riding.  
“Two and a half. The third time they pass us they’re racing for the line.”  
“Flag is up. They’re off!” said the voice from the tannoy. They really couldn’t see much of what was happening at the far side of the course. It was a novice race, and there were a couple of early fallers. Ginty gasped each time, but each time the commentator’s voice, naming the fallers, failed to name Rupert and she sighed with relief. Now they were racing up the turn towards them and she could see; the field still bunched close together, Rupert towards the back and outside. “He’s got him in a good position,” Sean told her. “He’s got a bit of space there to see the fences, and not be jostled on the inside.” The field met the next fence with the rattle and crash of breaking brush and with a thunder of hooves they all swept safely past.  
By the time the field came past again the three leaders were racing hard,competing with each other. Several lengths back a small group, including Rupert, followed at a more settled gallop; then in ones and twos a few stragglers were tailing off. Sean started to mutter excitedly. Racing down the hill away from them, one of the leaders, tiring, jumped so badly that his rider was unseated. “See that grey horse Spencer is following,” said Sean. “He’s the favourite. He’s won a couple of schooling bumpers. You’ll see if Rupert has anything left in the tank when the grey makes its move, Spence will try and go with it.” Before Ginty could ask what a schooling bumper was, the crowd started to roar. The two tiring front-runners suddenly seemed to be going backwards as the grey horse cruised past them. And Rupert, who had been following the grey for most of the race, saw no reason to abandon his new friend now, even though he was running faster than he’d ever run in his life. Gamely Rupert followed the grey up the hill, falling a couple of lengths behind as the grey increased his lead. But the rest of the field were being left even further behind. “Hold him together now,” said Sean, almost to himself, as they approached the last fence. Ginty held her breath, the grey horse soared, then Rupert, making a last valiant effort cleared it safely; then Sean and Ginty were running to the winning post shouting. To the cheers of the crowd the grey horse passed the winning line, followed by a tired but triumphant Rupert in second.  
As the other runners finished, most of them blown enough to be trotting before they even passed the line, Ginty ran up the side of the track to meet Rupert and Spencer walking back. Then there was ten minutes of frantic excitement and back slapping and Craig beaming and Rupert being unsaddled and buckets of water being thrown over his heaving flanks. Then there was the long job of walking Rupert until he was properly cool and dry.  
As Ginty led him up the track to the lorry park, they passed Brendan leading Hannibal down, ready for the Hunt Members race. Ginty could see what Craig meant by saying Hannibal knew why he was there. He was a big horse anyway, but he seemed a hand higher here, with the look in his eyes positively lordly, thought Ginty admiringly, like an eagle surveying his domain.  
Sean caught her up in the lorry park. “Have you got big pockets?” he said grinning, and handed over a wad of notes. “Your winnings. Eighty five pounds.”  
“Wow. Are you betting on Hannibal as well?” she asked.  
Sean laughed. “The trick is to quit while you’re ahead. Hannibal’s so likely to win, they’re betting on second place anyway.”  
They led Rupert over to a place where they could see some of the course. The voice on the tannoy informed them that Royal Jasper (Hannibal’s real name) had led over the first fence. Two and a half circuits later he was still comfortably in the lead and passed the winning line without having seen a horse in front of him for three miles.  
Everyone expected Ginty to join them in the pub when they had got back and put the horses to bed. Ginty agreed, not wanting the mood of euphoria and victory to end. She rather expected that she would have to spend some of her winnings on drinks, but when she offered to buy a round she was shouted down. The others had all won money too, and Rupert and Hannibal’s owners had tipped them handsomely enough to ‘fill the kitty’. “You’re our lucky charm” said Craig, very slurrily. Sean had driven the lorry home, so Craig’s celebrations had started long before they left the racecourse. “You’ll have to come with us every time!”  
Ginty spent the evening drinking Club Orange, after one cautious half-pint of shandy. Although the lesson she had learned at the Hunt Ball about not overdoing it was fading with time, it had occurred to her to wonder what Ann would think of her – gambling _and_ drinking on the same day?

XXXXX

Gemma and Ginty were increasingly busy with the young event horses as they grew stronger and fitter, so Ginty didn't get another chance to go racing for a while. Each horse had to go out at least once a week to a “party”, as Mrs M called the small local dressage and jumping shows. Although Moth remained Ginty’s firm favourite, she also developed a particular affinity with Finn. Tall, long and gangly, he found it hard to control his free-flowing paces in the confines of a twenty-by-forty metre arena. After Ginty had been riding him for a few weeks however, he transformed, seemingly overnight as adolescents often do, from a goofy-looking youngster all elbows and knees, to a suddenly handsome and powerfully sporty individual. At his first dressage test, he couldn’t stay inside the white marker boards and was technically eliminated; second time out he came fifth; then he astonished everyone by winning his next competition.  
Ginty also usually rode Robin, who had acquired the nickname Reliant Robin for his reliable and good-humoured nature. He was the type of horse who would suit Nicola (thought Ginty unkindly) because he was unfailingly kind and honest.  
Gemma’s favourites were the mares Nora and Amber. But both girls were developing a dislike for the good-looking but nappy Tudor. On one of Ginty’s days off, he had reared up on the road and deposited Gemma in front of a lorry, which was luckily only going slowly. From then on, the rule was that no-one rode him out on his own.  
Once the horses were fit enough to start jumping, they regularly did gridwork, which was something new for Ginty. Most of the jumping Ginty had done had been jumping Catkin over natural fences out hunting or hawking. Gridwork meant jumping down a line of fairly small jumps which Gemma built in the school, usually with only a stride or two between jumps, and sometimes no stride at all so the horses literally bounced. Gridwork was not Ginty’s favourite thing; of course it was better than roadwork, which was cold and boring, but she far preferred jumping in the cross-country schooling field. When she said something of this to Gemma, she ended up feeling foolish. Most horses could jump big single fences at a gallop, Gemma said reprovingly, but the modern event horse had to jump challenging combinations of jumps. Events were won by horses who could stay on their line and keep jumping, up banks, down drops, through water, with often only a stride or two to see what was coming next.  
Moth didn’t share Ginty’s dislike of gridwork, in fact he rather excelled at it. He was the type of horse who spooked in absolute horror if he had to be ridden _past_ a coloured pole, but once pointed between the wings of a jump he would jump anything that got in front of him. His quick pony brain and natural ability meant he and Ginty could fly down any combination of jumps that Gemma thought of building. Robin, on the other hand, might get the first jump wrong and then proceed to knock all the rest of the line down. But with time, Ginty realised she was learning. On Catkin, she had never thought about jumping. Now she knew she needed to see a stride into a fence; she could balance a horse around a turn to make sure it arrived at a jump on the right stride; after landing she could hold back for more strides or push on for less, and keep the horse in a good rhythm so that it was calm and in control ready for the next jump.  
The young horses were introduced to small logs and ditches in the cross-country schooling field. There were a range of natural jumps from the smallest wooden poles which could be trotted over to the two steeplechase fences which the racehorses schooled over. There were also two impressively huge jumps built into the hedges. They took turns to ride Theo, who gave the young horses a lead. He would sedately trot over the smallest of obstacles while the young horse fussed and jibbed and exclaimed that it couldn’t _possibly_ go near that tiny ditch because it Might Bang At Me! Eventually after Theo had obligingly popped over it several times the youngster would agree that just maybe it was safe, and Very Bravely launch themselves over it with several feet to spare Just In Case. Once the young horse had done enough, if it was Ginty’s turn to ride Theo she was allowed to go over the two Advanced fences. She had to be ready, because as soon as Gemma turned her horse away in a circle and said very casually ‘Off you go’, Theo would squeal with pleasure, throw in the politest of bucks out of pure joy and gallop towards the big solid fence. All Ginty had to do was sit tight and go with him as he soared majestically over the fences. Gemma even tried spelling out o-f-f-y-o-u-g-o to give Ginty a chance to be in charge, but Theo was too clever for that to work more than once. Ginty found herself living for those moments when she was airborne on Theo. It would be absolutely super, she thought, to ride a whole course on a horse like Theo.  
The thought of the Faberge pendant niggled at her. She knew from looking at the advertisements in Horse and Hound that its value wasn’t enough to buy an Advanced event horse. And she couldn’t do anything with it for nearly two years anyway. But maybe by then, if she worked hard and learned as much as possible, she could buy a promising young horse with potential and go from there…..


	12. Correspondence.

Ann had been scrupulous in writing to Ginty every week since she went back to school, usually on free afternoons. Some of the Sixth Form who were thinking of going into teaching were running GCSE revision tutorials for those of the Upper Fifth who wished to come. Ann borrowed their notes and made copies to send with her letter. She enjoyed writing long letters to Ginty, full of the sort of details which she would not put in her letters home, either because the twins would tell Mrs Marlow themselves in their own way, or because she didn’t want to get Mum fussed over minor things. So Ginty heard that Nicola and Lawrie had returned after half-term to find they were no longer sleeping in the attic, but were to be put in an ordinary dormitory. Sara Crewe had effectively become a private room for them after Ginty left which wasn’t considered appropriate for two Fourth formers. Worst of all, there hadn’t been two spare places together in any of the dorms, so to save disrupting anyone else, the twins were going into separate rooms. For the first time in their lives, they were sleeping in a room full of people who weren’t family, and sleeping apart from each other. Lawrie had wailed long and loudly about it, of course, but Ann worried that Nicola too was far more thrown by this than she would have admitted, least of all to Ann.  
Teachers occasionally let slip indiscreet comments in front of their Sixth Form classes. Ann didn’t take drama A-level, so she didn’t hear it herself, but she heard the gossip in the common room after Kempe had apparently said that she hated the Sound of Music anyway, and had really been hoping for West Side Story, but Keith would never hear of it. So it was no surprise that the plans for the summer show had changed over half-term. It was announced one morning in assembly, that this year’s ‘Summer Musical Revue’ was to be a ‘truly communal’ effort. Miss Keith had been so impressed by the way everyone had contributed to their Christmas act of worship, that they were going to try the same format for their summer show. Each class was going to prepare a sketch, scene or selection of songs from a play or musical. Although solos would be welcome, every member of the class would be expected to fully participate – so it would not be appropriate for example, to allow one person to do a long monologue, while the rest of the class did nothing. (Those in Lawrie’s class who had been hoping to do just that hid disappointment.) By the Easter holiday, each class should have chosen their programme and checked it with Kempe, ready to start rehearsing it next term.  
Thank goodness I’m out of all _that_ , thought Ginty, reading Ann’s account. No doubt that horrible friend of Lawrie’s who went round being supercilious with everyone because she was Keith’s niece would be showing off and ‘directing’ Lawrie as Juliet or Antigone. Although Antigone ought to be Nick really, thought Ginty snidely, if the brother whose body needed burying was Giles. Then she caught herself wondering why so many of her thoughts about Nicola were nasty. It was not as if she even _cared_ about Patrick any more.  
Mrs Marlow very occasionally wrote to Ginty. When she did write her letters were long and amusing, full of grown-up gossip. But she sometimes went weeks without writing, suggesting perhaps that she wrote when she was bored, for her own entertainment, rather than out of duty as their weekly letters at school usually were.  
“Rowan got a last minute booking on a skiing holiday, so she’s away this week. She assures me the ponies aren’t due to foal for weeks but I find myself popping out to check on them several times a day. Their bellies are huge, bless them! Anyway exciting news though a bit daunting as well, I think, Karen’s expecting a baby too! It’s due in October so we’re going to be grandparents by Christmas! Chas and Rose are delighted but Fob seems a bit dubious. Kay and Edwin wouldn’t have said anything just yet but poor Kay’s being horribly sick with it and Rose got it into her head Karen was ill with something serious, so they all had to be told.  
We won’t have Doris to help next holidays. She’s got her own little business going. There were some photos of the Master's daughters at the Hunt Ball in Country Life – shiny red faces both of them, but the dresses looked gorgeous – and now everyone wants one.  
Mrs Bertie keeps threatening she wants to retire, or at least go part-time. The dish-washer Geoff ordered has arrived and now she keeps telling me that what we really need is a tumble-dryer …”

Ginty found it easy to write back regularly to Ann. Having visited, she could be told that Finn, Moth and Nora were entered for their first Riding Club One Day Event, or that she had been to a pub quiz with Gemma and had surprised everyone by knowing all sorts of odd things (‘so Kingscote must have taught me something’) without needing long explanations as to who everyone was.  
But she didn’t know what to say to her mother. Frankly, the idea of Karen being pregnant already was horrifying, although she supposed that it was the same sort of age as her mother had been pregnant with Giles. And how lovely for Doris. Perhaps she should have kept the ragged remains of her party dress, in case Doris became a famous designer. And why shouldn’t Mrs Bertie retire, she must have been working for nearly fifty years. If Mrs M could manage without a live-in housekeeper, why couldn’t her mum, at least during term-time?  
So she ended up scrawling on a postcard: ‘Skiing sounds absolutely super. Tell Karen congrats from me, hope she’s not feeling too grotty still. We have six foals here, they are gorgeous. Say hi to Mrs Bertie and Doris from me. Lots of love, G’

XXXXX

Ruby’s foal Maudie had been joined by five more thoroughbred foals. They were all lovely and entrancing as young animals usually are, but they were secretly causing Ginty some anxious moments. Since starting at Sweetmore, she had always been more nervous dealing with horses on the ground than when riding them. Although the young riding horses had all calmed down and she was now perfectly comfortable around them, the mares were worse than ever. Anxiety over their new foals, combined with the rush of hormones as they came into season, could make them decidedly wilful.  
Part of Ginty and Gemma’s job was to get the foals used to being handled. From the day they were born the new foals were taught to wear headcollars, be led in hand, be brushed gently all over and have their feet picked up. Maudie seemed to think this was a great game with Ginty. She would plant her hoof firmly as Ginty tried with all her strength to lift it, then suddenly snatch it up so fast that Ginty would let go and be sent flying.  
They were in the mare Florence’s stable with her foal Luca, two days after he was born. Gemma was running her hands down his legs to pick his feet up while Ginty held his head. He was lipping gently at her coat sleeves with his soft velvety muzzle, and she was telling him what a lovely boy he was. As Gemma’s hand ran down his leg though, he instinctively jumped away. They tried again, and Ginty kept a firmer hold of Luca’s head, but over reacting, she held on too tight. Feeling the pressure the foal panicked and reared up against her.  
“Don’t try to fight them or they just pull back,” said Gemma. “You have to go with them enough that they don’t have anything to resist.”  
The next time they tried, the foal backed into his mother’s side, where her calming bulk steadied him, and he allowed Gemma to pick up his foot. But on this and other occasions Ginty found herself worried and uncomfortable. Riding had always been instinctive for her. Once she had mastered the basics, such as rising trot, at the riding school they had gone to as children, everything else had seemed to follow on without her having to be told. Of course, she had to be taught technical things such as dressage movements, but she had always naturally been able to sit on a buck or soothe a nervous horse. But she didn't seem to have the same instinctive ability when she was handling a horse on the ground, where its head, hooves and sheer size could hurt her. Worrying about it in bed one night when she couldn’t sleep, she realised it wasn’t so much the possibility of being hurt that bothered her as the sense of being out of control. She couldn’t help dwelling on things that had gone wrong. Like the time Mrs M was helping her on Gemma’s day off. Ginty was leading in the mare Jasmine while Mrs M led the foal. They had to go past a paddock where Finn and Robin were turned out. Ginty should really have brought them in first but she had forgotten. Jasmine took violent exception to the two young horses cantering up to the fence in idle curiosity, and trotted sideways, tail swishing madly, back to the yard with Ginty grimly being towed along. She was gasping for breath by the time they reached the stable door, and was scraped against it as Jasmine barged in. She slipped the lead rope as Mrs M went in with the foal, and the over-exited Jasmine whirled round and lashed out angrily behind her. Both hind feet slammed into the wall in the exact place where Mrs M’s head had been a second earlier.  
“Well, that was a near death experience,” said Mrs M, deceptively calmly, once the stable door was shut.  
“I’m so sorry,” said Ginty, shaken and ashamed.  
“Never, ever do that again. Always make sure the other person’s got to the door, then both let go together.”  
“I’m really sorry.”  
“You’ve learned a lesson, I hope, seeing me nearly getting both barrels in my head.” Ginty nodded miserably. “Now let’s go and get those naughty boys in before they cause any more trouble,” said Mrs M.  
Ginty was still a bit trembly when they went to catch the boys, and Finn, sensing it, played up, refusing to let her catch him.  
“I’m not in the mood for your nonsense,” Mrs M told him sternly. “Let’s take Robin and he can stay out on his own.” They started walking back with Robin, while Finn neighed indignantly. Next they heard a sudden rattle of galloping hooves, an airborne second of silence, and then Finn cantered after them into the yard, thoroughly pleased with himself, having soared over the five-barred gate.  
“You’d better not have lamed yourself doing that,” Mrs M said to Finn crossly, as Ginty caught hold of him. She carefully felt his legs and feet. “Trot him up later, Ginty, just to check. We don’t want him to miss the event on Saturday, do we, especially if he can jump like that!”  
They brought the rest of the mares in without mishap. But as Ginty fed horses and swept up she reflected gloomily that she seemed to have lost her nerves about competing only to have started being scared of something else. And Mrs M must be thinking that she was a complete wimp.  
But when she went into the house that evening Mrs M was in a happy flurry of excitement after a phone call from Thomas.  
“They’re going to be here on Saturday night. Oliver’s looking at horses for a client, so they’re doing a trip to a few yards where they’ve got prospects to look at, and he’s bringing Tom, and they’ll come here on Saturday evening to stay the night, and have a quick look at what we’ve got before they go off on Sunday.”  
Even Ginty knew who Oliver Fitzwilliam was; a regular on the British event team over the last decade, winner of both Badminton and Burghley, an Olympic team and individual medalist; he was one of the top names in British eventing. But even if she hadn’t known she would have been told several times over that evening, as Mrs M enthused over how _lucky_ Tom had been to be able to train in his yard. Oliver was so _generous_ with his time towards younger riders, and Tom was doing so _well_ with him, and getting so many good horses to ride, he’d even been given a ride on a horse that was going to _Badminton_ …. Ginty was truly excited by the thought of meeting Oliver Fitzwilliam, but by the end of the evening she thought she wouldn’t mind if she never heard another word about Tom ever again.


	13. Reconciliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've adapted a quote for the last line.

Karen and Edwin’s car, having used up all the money from the sale of her ring getting through its MOT, treacherously spluttered and died as Karen turned into the farm drive. She turned the key in the ignition hopefully a few times, getting a few coughs and wheezes from the engine, then nothing.  
“Oh, damn-blow-blast-and-bloody-hell!” she swore, banging the wheel and feeling like bursting into tears for the second time that morning. The first time had been when realising how late they were running, she had told the children that she would run them down to the station, and Fob had complained that she WANTED to walk actually and Karen spoiled EVERYTHING for her. Shocked by the Methren’s subsequent meltdown, Chas and Rose had frog-marched Fob to the car, Chas telling her to ‘Shut up!’ and Rose promising her the loan of her new and much coveted hair band if she behaved.  
Thank goodness the children weren’t here now, thought Karen. Then her heart sank as she realised a tractor was coming down the lane, being driven by Rowan, and the car was blocking its way. Of all the people that she didn’t want to have to see her in this state: tear-streaked, exhausted and feeling grotty.  
“What’s happened?” asked Rowan, jumping down from the tractor cab.  
“Broken down.”  
“Oh, bad luck. I can tow it up to the yard for you anyway.” Rowan looked sickeningly healthy and cheerful, thought Karen. She still had the rather peculiar tanned face from her skiing holiday – two whiter circles round her eyes where the ski goggles had been, and a glowing tan everywhere else. She seemed so – happy – thought Karen, realising that she didn’t know when she had last seen Rowan look so obviously happy.  
“Are you all right, Karen?” asked Rowan.  
“Yes. No. _Yes_. Oh, it’s just a bit of a last straw thing…”  
“Well, we don’t have to hurry. Come and sit in the cab. I’ve got a fresh flask in here.”  
“Oh, is it coffee? Because I’m not…”  
“No. It’s cocoa, so you’re all right. I got rather addicted to hot chocolate after skiing.” There was only one cup so Rowan poured and gave first go to Karen.  
“So was it fun? Your holiday?”  
“Yes, rather. Look if it helps, you can use the landrover if you need to go out today. I’m not going anywhere, and Mum is in a flap about which rooms to get ready. The others are home next week, and Nick’s bringing a friend.”  
“The friend can go in Gin’s room, can’t it?”  
“That’s got the carpets all up. It’s having new wallpaper for when Aunt Molly comes.”  
“Oh. Aren’t there hundreds of empty rooms still?”  
“It was the one that needed redoing the most. So Aunt Molly might as well benefit.” Rowan paused. There was a short silence, which neither sister knew how to break, then Rowan said hurriedly, “So how is it? Being pregnant, I mean?”  
“Oh, alright. Apart from being tired. The sickness isn’t so bad now. The worst thing is I want to burst into tears all the time.”  
“That must be inconvenient,” said Rowan dryly.  
Karen gave her a sideways look. “And Edwin, well he tries to help, but … crying females aren’t really his strong point…”  
“No, I don’t suppose they are.”  
Karen handed the cup back.  
“Kay,” said Rowan slowly, pouring cocoa for herself. “When did you know about Edwin? That he was ‘the one’, I mean?”  
“Goodness, there’s a question!” said Karen, surprised. “It sort of crept up on me at the start, I suppose, without me realising, and then suddenly it rushed on me all at once.”  
“Oh. You make it sound like a hunting cheetah.”  
“ _No-one_ has ever compared Edwin to a _cheetah_ before,” said Karen, trying not to giggle and failing.  
“I don’t suppose they have,” said Rowan, gravely, eyeing her helpless sister. “You’re going to make me spill the cocoa!”  
And suddenly, after a year of stiff, unfriendly politeness, they were back to normal. There was Karen, here was Rowan, and whatever Rowan might think of Kay’s behaviour last year, made no difference anymore.


	14. One-Day-Event.

Gemma and Ginty had been up before dawn on Saturday morning. Now Ginty sat in the lorry cab, hungrily eating her way through most of a packet of ginger nuts. In the rush of preparation there hadn’t been time for breakfast before they left. Gemma had promised her a bacon-and-egg soda at the event, but Ginty’s stomach couldn’t rely on food at some unspecified time in the future. Finishing the biscuits, she rummaged in the stash of snacks and started on a bag of cheese and onion crisps.  
Mrs M wasn’t coming with them, ostensibly to feed and look after the horses on the yard at the proper times, but really because she didn’t want to risk not being there when Tom and Oliver arrived. Gemma, driving, wasn’t being very talkative, so Ginty passed the time imagining colour combinations that would look nice when she could get her own cross-country colours. The money that she had won on Rupert was safely in her sock drawer, and she was planning to spend it on a few sessions with a maths tutor before her exams. On days like this though, she would have liked to spend it on competition clothes, instead of making do with a borrowed jacket and one of Tom’s old rugby shirts for the cross-country.  
It was still early when they arrived at the farm where the horse trials were being held. Familiar to Gemma, but all new to Ginty, was the setting up bustle of an event, seemingly casual but actually running with military precision. The judges’ cars were rolling into place by the dressage arenas. Stewards checked the show-jumping ring. A slow line of horse boxes wound its way into the field. Ramps were lowered, horses shifted, stamped and whinnied. Over-excited horses were being lunged in far corners of the field. Clumps of riders in wellies disappeared over the dew wet grass to walk the cross country course. Most people knew each other well enough to at least nod to each other as they made their way between lorry park and secretary’s tent, others gathered in small knots to gossip and exchange news. The smell of bacon wafted enticingly from the catering van. In the lorry parked next to theirs, a kettle boiled, whistling shrilly.  
Finn was the first of their horses to go. Gemma tacked him up and led him down the ramp, while Ginty fiddled with tie and hairnet, still wishing she had an elegantly fitted jacket instead of Patrick’s old one which was too big really.  
The event was being held over several open fields. A low wall and scrubby hedge along the brow of the field hid a sandy beach from view, though the wind was full of salt and the smell of sea. Further in the distance, purple mountains ran down to the sea. Finn found the openness and sea breeze highly exciting. Ginty would have loved to gallop him along the beach, but she contained him, working him hard until he was listening and obedient. She was rewarded with one of the best dressage tests Finn had ever done, energetic, engaged and accurate.  
As she rode back, she saw that Gemma and Nora were already warming up in the distance. Moth, left helpfully saddled and ready to go, whinnied hopefully from the lorry. Ginty, disconcerted, was wondering how she was supposed to get one horse in and the other out on her own, when a thin, dark girl appeared from the horsebox next to theirs.  
“Are you Ginty?” she said, taking Finn’s reins. “Gemma said would I help you swap over.” She was a couple of years younger than Ginty.  
“Great, thanks,” said Ginty, relieved.  
As she removed Finn’s saddle, the girl said, trying to sound casual, “Gemma said Tom’s visiting tonight. Is he staying long, do you know?”  
“Only tonight, I think,” answered Ginty, throwing on Finn’s rug.  
“Oh.” The girl sounded disappointed, so Ginty, recognising something of her younger self, said kindly, “I think he’s back for a while this summer.”  
“Oh good. He taught at Pony Club camp last year. D’you think he will again?”  
Ginty was saved from answering, as she was in the lorry untying Moth. As she led him down the ramp, the girl squeaked. “He’s gorgeous!”  
“Who Tom?”  
“Well, yes, but I meant _him_. What’s he called? He’s lovely!”  
“This is Moth.” Finn, realising that no-one’s attention was on him, started to fidget, but the girl, casually managing him, called to her mum to ‘come and look’, before taking Finn up the ramp.  
Mum appeared, an older, stringier, more weather-beaten version of her daughter. Without even glancing at Ginty, she ran an appraising eye over Moth. (Ginty was later to learn that ignoring grooms was completely normal among those who bought and sold horses.) “Gemma said you had a nice Junior prospect with you. Done much yet? Want a leg up?”  
Mum expertly legged Ginty into the saddle without waiting for an answer, and Ginty rode away, thankful that Moth was behaving himself with both mother and daughter’s eyes on him.  
It was lucky that Moth was on his best behaviour. Ginty had only been warming him up for a short time when she heard a series of cries, an atavistic burst of hoofbeats and a loose horse, having deposited its rider, galloped past. For a few seconds Moth considered joining it as, evading all attempts at capture, it disappeared across the dressage field. With a certain amount of snorting and eye-rolling Moth agreed to carry on working with Ginty, and she soon had him accepting that he was beyond all that nonsense now.  
As she rode over to the dressage arenas, she met Gemma riding Nora back, looking rueful. “We’d just gone in and saluted, when that horse went galloping past. So her mind wasn’t really on the job after that.”  
Moth was almost perfectly behaved in his dressage test, only spooking slightly at the judge’s car, just enough to check Ginty was awake. Pleased and relieved, she rode him back to the lorry to find Gemma offering Finn and Nora water, and the dark haired girl sitting on her lorry ramp, morosely cleaning a saddle. Ginty couldn’t help looking in the direction of the living area of her horse box because a lot of shouting was emanating from it.  
“Georgia forgot her way in the dressage test,” explained the girl.  
“Ah,” said Ginty, glad that she hadn’t made that mistake yet.  
Gemma helped her put Moth away, saying, “We’ve got time to walk the cross-country course before we have to get them out for show-jumping, if we jog the downhill bits at least. Do you want to get something to eat first or can you wait?”  
Ginty, who had been regretting the cheese-and-onion crisps all through her dressage, said she could wait.  
“Can I come with you?” asked the girl.  
“No, Sarah, I need you to take Monty up to the show-jumping for Georgia,” snapped her mother emerging from her lorry. Georgia, looking rather chewed-up, appeared, a younger version of Sarah.  
“Poor Sarah would rather be grooming for us, I think,” said Gemma as they jogged away. “At least we say thank you.”  
Guiltily aware that she probably hadn’t, Ginty asked who the family were. Gemma explained that they were four sisters who all rode, and their mother was a horse dealer. Sarah was only not riding because her latest ride had been sold.  
The cross-country course was mostly small, straightforward and inviting. They had entered the most novice class as it was the horses’ first time. Moth used to be suspicious of water and ditches so Ginty was relieved to see the water jump was a simple case of riding into the water down a shallow ramp and then jumping out over a tiny log. There was a deep and dark ditch with a log suspended over it, but Gemma thought the horses would be looking at the log and the ditch was mostly there to frighten the riders. There was one possibly tricky combination, which they walked through several times, working out their line. They had to jump over a small drop into a sunken lane, a stride to jump up a bank and out, then two strides to an upright fence set a slight angle.  
After walking the course they went to look at the show-jumping course. Ginty started to feel that she’d done an awful lot of things already that morning, but they were still only a third of the way through the day. “I’m more worried about this than the cross-country, to be honest,” said Gemma. Some of those fillers are a bit shiny and spooky with the sun on them. Especially the third part of that treble.”  
They watched a couple of competitors do their rounds. Gemma was right; they saw one horse stop sharply at the treble while its rider carried on without it. The next one hesitated, then jumped but had the top pole down.  
“Remember, we’re only here for the experience. A run-out or a pole down really won’t matter, so just stay calm and don’t worry too much,” said Gemma. “Just take it as slowly as you like, Finn could jump all of them out of a steady trot. Give him time to see what’s coming.”  
Gemma needn’t have worried. All three horses jumped clear.  
“All that gridwork, see?” remarked Gemma smugly.  
“And our brilliant riding, of course,” added Ginty, airily. Both of them grinned at each other to make sure the other knew that both comment and tone were jokes.  
“We’ve got a bit over an hour till we have to get Finn out. Get the kettle on. There’s some chocolate in the bag. Have a bit of a sit-down, and I’ll take all their plaits out. We might need a bit of mane to hold onto.” Gemma quietly bustled about in the back of the lorry, while Ginty made tea in the living compartment. She was opening the second bar of chocolate when Sarah poked her head round the door.  
“Is Moth’s real name Ghost Moth? He’s in fourth place so far, did you know?” Sarah had been studying the score board. Moth had been sixth after dressage, then two horses ahead of him had faults in the showjumping.  
“Did you happen to notice the others?” called Gemma.  
“If Finn is Finn Again, then he’s in the lead.”  
“And Leading Light?”  
“I don’t know. Not near the top anyway, I don’t think. I didn’t really look down below about eighth.”  
“Oh well. It’s the next bit that matters.”

Gemma was getting Finn ready while Ginty pulled on Tom’s old green and white striped rugby shirt. She was starting to feel both excited and nervous, but it was a good sort of nervous, like she felt before parties, not the crippling fear that she sometimes felt before sporting events where she was expected to do well. She was imagining herself leaping enormous solid rails and death-defying drops, thundering gloriously over sweeping stretches of rolling grass, like the riders in the old Badminton videos Mrs M put on for her in the evenings sometimes. In reality, she knew the jumps were tiny, and Finn would be in a steady canter at most..  
“Ginty, are you listening?” snapped Gemma, breaking into her vision of ‘accidently’ riding round the biggest course instead of the beginners’ one …  
Gemma was rattling off a long list of instructions about what she had to do with Finn when she had finished, involving water and scrapers and rugs and green ointment. It occurred to Ginty that maybe Gemma was nervous, and properly nervous too.  
Finn was rather bemused to be coming out of the lorry and ridden for a _third_ time, but he started to get excited when he saw other horses galloping round the cross-country warm-up area. Ginty jumped him over the practice jump a couple of times, and gave him a swift, sharp gallop to wake him up. Then she was called to the starting box, and the starter began the countdown. Finn, who had no idea why a strange man was saying ‘ten, nine, …..three, two, one,’ was astonished when on ‘go’ Ginty gave him a big kick and expected him to canter away from all the other horses. He was in a very reluctant canter when he saw the first jump and realised what he had to do. After that he started to enjoy himself, jumping bigger and bigger over every jump and starting to pull quite hard. Even at the water he plunged in without hesitation. He was galloping and jumping so well, that Ginty, caught up in the exhilaration of the ride she was having, never steadied him before the first part of the sunken lane. Finn soared over the drop, and landed so far in that he didn’t have room for a full stride before the bank out. Heroically he took off straightaway, completely catching Ginty out. She was thrown back out of balance, frantically grabbing at a bit of mane to hold onto. Finn landed safely, Ginty was still on board – just – but Finn had galloped past the last part of the jump. Ginty hauled at her reins like washing lines trying to pull Finn round. What are you on about, girl? said Finn, resisting; then he saw the fence, and pricked his ears, clearly saying, oh, there’s a jump _there_ – why didn’t you _say_?  
After that Ginty checked him before each fence and from then on it was plain sailing. She pulled him up after the last fence, both of them blowing hard, beaming and patting his sweaty neck.  
Nora and Gemma trotted over. “How was it?”  
“We had one run-out. But it was my fault. Everything else was just fantastic!”  
Her legs felt like jelly as she jumped off, so she was hugely grateful to Sarah who came running over to help her. Sarah unsaddled Finn, took off his boots, washed him off, scraped him down and put sweat rugs on him, expertly and without fuss, while Ginty just held his headcollar. “He’s got a little nick on his leg here,” Sarah said. “Shall I put something on it?”  
“Oh yes, Gemma said something about ointment.”  
“Got it,” said Sarah, “Oh, and she said you might want this.” She returned with a bottle of Lucozade.  
Ginty realised how thirsty she was, and gulped most of it down in one go. Sarah offered Finn a little water, then took him away for a walk and a pick of grass. Moth whinnied, reminding Ginty that she had to keep going, though it was tempting to stay sitting on the ramp in the sunshine.  
Moth was delighted to be outside again, and his ears pricked happily as she rode him up to the course, just in time to see Nora galloping through the finish line. Both Gemma and Nora looked very pleased with themselves. Both were still riding high on adrenaline, the thrill of the ride, relief and success combined. “She went clear! She was an absolute star! She suddenly saw the ditch at the last minute and jumped twice as high as she needed to and I nearly got jumped off but luckily she slowed down while I hung on and we survived, and everything else was amazing!”  
Moth, seeing other horses jumping the practice jump didn’t want to wait and hear about it anymore, so he and Ginty cantered off to warm up, as Gemma wished them good luck. Ginty felt cross with herself about her mistake on Finn, now that Gemma had gone clear on Nora. But Moth didn’t let her down. As soon as they trotted out of the start gate and he saw the first jump, with its white and red flags, he concentrated. He popped neatly over the fences, galloping on eagerly looking for the next jump, but still listening to Ginty when she needed to steady him. The fences were like a magnet drawing him to them, thought Ginty, as once he’d seen them he locked on, seeing a perfect stride a long way out, and not looking either right or left. The course unfolded before them, and all too soon it was over.  
As she finished, she saw Sarah running up. “I saw him over the last ones. Wasn’t he amazing? Did he go clear all the way?”  
Ginty nodded, sliding off, and grinning stupidly with euphoria. “Awesome!” she said simply. Sarah was loosening Moth’s girth and running up her stirrups for her. They led him back together, chattering happily about how marvellous Moth had been.  
Later on, with all the tired horses cool and dry, and munching on haynets in the lorry, Ginty and Gemma sat on the ramp finally eating the long-promised bacon and egg soda. The next class of the competition had started, and there was a steady stream of horses setting off from the lorry park, the horses with an eager step and pricked ears, the riders with anxious, concentrated expressions. When they came back the horses were blowing and sweaty and happy, and the riders were laughing and talking non-stop, still enjoying the adrenaline rush in replay. Occasionally someone came back looking stiff and muddy after a fall, or embarrassed and furious after being eliminated.  
Gemma and Ginty licked egg yolk and tomato sauce off fingers, and washed down their food with coke. “A quick look at the score board, then home,” said Gemma.  
Finn’s run out had cost him twenty points so he had plummeted down the leader board. Nora’s double clear meant that she considerably improved on her dressage score and now was just outside the placings. But there, written in chalk for all to see, was Ghost Moth, and written after his score – 1st.


	15. Opening Doors.

“Wakey, wakey,” said Gemma, as the lorry engine stopped. Woken by the sudden absence of noise and motion, Ginty blinked and realised that they were home. Feeling sleepy and stiff, she helped pull down the ramp, as Mrs M appeared out of the house. Still yawning, she was caught in a cross-fire of news, as Gemma and Mrs M told each other about the day. ‘Oliver and Tom are here,’ ‘Moth _won!_ ’ ‘Oh, jolly good, Ginty!’ ‘Nora jumped a double clear,’ … She led a weary Moth down the ramp and into his stable. She removed his travel gear and watched him have a roll and then a drink, before bringing him night rugs, hay and food. Mrs M came in to check his legs for any heat or swelling.  
“Mrs Ridwell was very interested in Moth,” said Gemma.  
“For which girl?”  
“Well, Sarah was the only one without a ride today.”  
“Poor Sarah always seems to have her’s sold on the soonest.”  
“She is the best rider of the four,” Gemma pointed out. “She gets them going the best.”  
“Moth would be perfect for her, but her mother would probably sell him on as soon as she had him ready to really do anything.”  
Ginty, starting to feel alarmed, was relieved when Mrs M added, “Anyway, I thought Ginty could do Juniors on Moth unless someone made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. And that’s probably unlikely from Sandy Ridwell.”  
Shutting Moth’s door, they walked slowly down the line of stables, listening to the contented sounds of hay being eaten. “Oliver really liked Robin,” said Mrs M, pausing at his door. “He had a look at him loose-jumping in the school. He liked the way Robin got it completely wrong first time, then second time round you could see he thought about it and came round and did it right. He thinks he’s got the sort of brain he likes in a horse.”  
As they stopped by the feedroom door to lock up, footsteps crunched on the gravel and a tall boy appeared. “I was just coming to see if you needed any help,” Tom said cheerfully.  
“Having timed it perfectly so that we’d finished everything?” enquired Gemma, but in a pleased, friendly way.  
“You wrong me! Who brought in all the mares and helped with evening stables?”  
“Well, you talked to me while I did it,” said his mother, “Not that it wasn’t very nice to have company.”  
“Hello. You must be Ginty,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “I’m Tom. Hey, that’s my lucky shirt you’re wearing!”  
“Well, it’s obviously working for Ginty, too,” said Mrs M. “She won her class on Moth.”  
“Moth? Is that the little wild, grey pony?”  
“Not wild anymore. Or even that little. He’s grown. Like you never seem to stop doing,” said Gemma. She wasn’t tall, and Tom loomed over her even more than most people.  
“Well done, Ginty,” said Tom, warmly. “That was the shirt I wore when we won the schools rugby cup. But it obviously likes you. You’ll have to go on wearing it.”  
Gemma would have parted from them where the driveway split to go up the lane to her cottage, but Mrs M insisted she came in to have dinner with them. “Especially now it’s a celebration feast,” added Tom.  
Oliver, greeting them politely in the kitchen, looked just like his photo on the front of Horse and Hound. He produced several bottles of wine, including one of champagne.  
“He didn’t buy it,” said Tom cheekily, as Mrs M thanked Oliver. “He won a case of it at an event, the one that’s sponsored by the drinks company.”  
“Gosh, how lovely. I never won anything like that in my day.”  
“No. I don’t suppose champagne had been invented then. It must have been all mead in goatskins…”  
“You horrible boy,” Mrs M pretended to hit Tom with a ladle.  
They all sat down to dinner around the big kitchen table, which had been cleared of its ageing piles of Horse and Hounds in honour of the occasion. Oliver was entertaining company, amusing them with tales of the exploits of his two young children on their Shetland ponies who were more trouble than all the event horses put together. As Ginty and Gemma ate their way through two helpings of everything, he and Mrs M discussed eventing news and gossip. Ginty listened fascinated, as famous eventing names were casually dropped into the conversation.  
She also found that she wanted to constantly look at Tom. There were lots of photos of him round the house, usually with or on a horse, and Ginty had never particularly noticed his looks. Because when frozen still in a photo, no-one could say he was especially handsome; his nose slightly too big, his mouth too wide, his cheekbones too prominent. But in motion, when talking or laughing or smiling – and he always was doing one of those things – his face was curiously attractive and watchable. Whenever her eyes were drawn to him and he glanced up and caught her looking, or, which happened just as often, she became aware that he was gazing at her, their eyes met and he smiled at her in the most openly friendly way. His eyes were a clear grey, - battleship grey, thought Ginty foolishly. But when he smiled, his eyes lit up, like sunlight over a winter sea.  
Once everybody was feeling full, and only Tom was still on third helpings, Gemma and Ginty were prevailed upon to give a detailed account of their day. Ginty made a good story of Finn’s first attempt at cross-country and her own misjudgement. Oliver seemed genuinely interested. When she had finished he asked, “So what’s your career plan, Ginty?”  
Ginty blushed, “I don’t know if you could call it a career plan yet. But I definitely want to be an event rider. I want to go on working here, of course,” she added hurriedly. “I’ve still got a lot to learn.”  
“I thought Ginty might do some dressage on Theo in the summer,” remarked Mrs M.  
“He’ll enjoy that. It’ll make him feel important again,” said Tom.  
“Mind you, it’ll be going from the sublime to the ridiculous, doing advanced dressage on Theo, then backing three year olds,” said Mrs M to Ginty.  
“You could come and work for me next year,” suggested Tom. “I’m going to need a groom when I start out on my own."  
“Don’t even think of it, Ginty,” warned Gemma. “He’ll have you doing all the mucking out and riding everything himself.”  
“That’s not fair!” Tom started to protest, but even his mother was against him.  
“I remember at Pony Club camp. You had a different girl mucking out your pony every day.”  
“That was when I was young!”  
“Yes, and we had to pull a different girl out of his tent every night too,” added Mrs M.  
Tom had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, I’m much older and wiser now. Those days are long past!”  
“So what’s happening, Tom,” asked Gemma. “Have you found a yard?”  
It turned out that a small block of stables with grazing and an outdoor school was soon to come up for rent a few miles away from Oliver’s yard. It was on an estate that belonged to one of his owners, so Tom could have it on very favourable terms. And being close meant he could go on training with Oliver, while starting to take on some livery horses as well as his own.  
“In all seriousness,” Oliver said. “You won’t want a young rider like Ginty as a groom when you’re setting up. You won’t have enough rides to give any away and she’d get fed up.”  
“No, true. I could do with someone efficient to keep me organised, though. If you fancy moving back to England, Gemma?”  
“Can you stop trying to poach all my staff, Tom!” his mother exclaimed. “Although at least I wouldn’t worry about you so much if you had a Gemma running your yard.”  
Oliver was looking thoughtful. “Seriously though, when you’re ready to move on Ginty, get in touch. When Tom does leave, which won’t be till the end of the autumn season, I’ll possibly have a space for a good young rider.” Mrs M looked complacent, which suggested to Gemma at least, that this idea had already been discussed between them. Ginty, startled but flattered, stammered her thanks.  
As Mrs M put cheese and biscuits on the table, and Oliver produced a huge box of chocolates, Tom said to his mother, “Did Oliver say about Punchestown?”  
“What about Punchestown?”  
“Well, you know you were coming down to meet us at the end, in the horsebox, to bring me and Bear back? Well, Oliver’s going to have two horses and I’ll have Bear, and I can do Bear for the trot-up and dressage days. But I’ll need some help on cross-country day, and whoever Oliver brings will be flat out with his two?”  
“So you want..?”  
“Well, what if you came down the night before and brought Gemma or Ginty with you to be my groom for cross-country day?”  
“Don’t you think I’m capable of doing it?” asked his mother dryly.  
“Well of course, but your old knees aren’t what they were, as you keep saying. (Tom was threatened for the second time that evening with a kitchen implement.) No, but seriously, you have to run miles between the steeplechase and the ten minute box there, don’t you?”  
“They have a minibus usually,” commented Gemma. “But Ginty’s never been to a three-day-event. It would be educational for her.”  
“It does sound like a good idea. But will it interfere with your exams? Punchestown is in middle of May,” asked Mrs M.  
“None of them are until June,” Ginty assured her.  
“What exams are you doing, BHS exams?” asked Oliver.  
“Um, no, actually, they’re my GCSEs,” answered Ginty.  
“You’ve left school before your GCSEs?” interrupted Tom, enviously. “Mum, why wouldn’t you let _me_ do that?!”  
“It wasn’t a case of anyone ‘letting’ Ginty. She made her own decision about that, didn’t you, Ginty?” said Mrs M.  
Tom cast her a look of curious respect. Feeling rather self-conscious Ginty admitted, “I ran away from school, actually.”  
Tom gave an admiring whistle. “So where are you doing your exams?”  
Ginty explained that she was sitting them at the local college, and Mrs M was kindly giving her an extra afternoon off each week in order to study.  
“Gosh, you’re brave. There’s no way I could have done that,” said Tom, sounding genuinely impressed.  
Ginty was torn. On the one hand she knew that running away from school had been motivated by an unhappy mixture of hurt pride and impulsive bravado, but on the other hand she wanted Tom to go _on_ looking at her in that way. “Actually, I think it was stupid more than brave,” she said honestly. “I’m just lucky it worked out so well.”

XXXXX

 

Next morning, Gemma was mucking out, while Mrs M and Oliver, armed with his video camera, watched Ginty ride Finn in the school. By rights Finn should have been having a well-earned day off after the event, but Oliver had liked him so much when he saw him trotted up that he wanted to see him ridden. No-one except Finn himself thought that ten minutes exercise would hurt, and even he perked up when he saw Mrs M building jumps.  
“Gemma, can I ask you a question?” said Tom, in a wheedling voice, appearing suddenly in the stable doorway.  
“No, I can’t muck your pony out,” said Gemma automatically.  
“Honestly, I’m not twelve any more!”  
“Alright. No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”  
“How did you know I was going to ask that?”  
“Because I _have_ known you since you were twelve…”  
“Oh. So she doesn’t then?”  
“Well, she’s quite friendly with the farrier’s apprentice but as far as I know they are just friends.”  
“Oh. Good. Shall I empty this wheelbarrow for you?”  
“Yes please. I should be getting some tack on Robin. Oh, and Tom? You will be sensible, won’t you? She’s had one useless boyfriend already, and I don’t think she’s very - streetwise - where boys are concerned.”  
“Well, I don’t plan to be a useless boyfriend. But she probably wouldn’t look twice at me anyway.”

XXXXX

 

After Oliver and Tom had departed, Gemma and Ginty were left with only Tudor and Amber to ride out. Tudor hadn’t been shown to Oliver because his character was still suspect. Amber was safe from being shown to prospective buyers because she was one of Ruby’s female offspring, and was being kept to carry on the line, now Ruby was retiring. After their long day yesterday, and an early start so that Oliver could see the horses before he left, the girls both felt like a relaxed, easy ride. So they hacked quietly up a long, steep road, making the horses trot slowly to build up their fitness.  
“Do you mind not going to Punchestown?” asked Ginty, hoping Gemma wouldn’t be feeling that she was missing out on a trip she was entitled to.  
“No, it’s OK. I’ll enjoy having the place to myself,” said Gemma. “Though it would have been nice to see Elaine again. She’s Oliver’s travelling groom. We used to work together years ago. She’ll make sure you know what to do while you’re there.”  
“Do you think Oliver meant what he said last night? About me maybe going to him? Or was he just joking, d’you think?”  
“No, he wouldn’t have been joking. But anything can happen. Things might have changed by next year. It was Mrs M’s suggestion, of course. Oliver would take her opinion seriously.”  
Ginty felt suddenly flushed, realising the implications of this remark.  
They came to a narrow, twisty bit of road where they had to go single file, and couldn’t talk comfortably. When they could ride side by side again, Ginty couldn’t help bringing up the subject upon which she had been dwelling privately.  
“Tom’s nice, isn’t he?” she said, in an off-hand, casual tone.  
Gemma glanced at Ginty’s studiedly nonchalant expression and felt briefly tempted to tease her. But remembering her own teenage crushes she forbore. “Yes, he is,” she said. “Genuinely nice, actually. Not just the way you use the word nice when you’ve got nothing really to say about a person, and you go ‘oh, he seems like a nice guy’. He really is lovely.”  
“Oh. How long does he come back for in the summer?”  
“A couple of months probably. It depends what he’s planning to do with the older horses. He’ll start BHS eventing with the young horses.”  
Ginty was silent, frowning and Gemma guessed what she was thinking. “Don’t worry, he can’t ride them all. And you definitely won’t lose your ride on Moth – Tom’s far too big for him!


	16. Family Matters.

‘Dear Gin,  
I still haven’t quite forgiven you for disappearing off like that. It’s been the most dreary term without you. Verity, Joc, Em and Isa send love. They all think you’ve been quite, quite mad. I think you were probably just a little bit mad. Though I am quite jealous because it sounds like you’ve been having fun. Your sister Ann told me all about her visit. I’m tempted to come and visit this summer if the Aged Parents will let me.  
I’ve think I’ve finally caught up with all the work I missed last term, only now there’s this awful concert we’ve got to do next term. Our form seems determined to pick all the most sick-making songs you can imagine. I’m a bit of a lone voice against it all so I wish you were here too. Even V, J, E and I are in on it too.  
I’m starting to think I can’t stick Kingscote for another two years after this. I’m going to try to talk the A.P.s into letting me go to the local sixth form college instead for A-levels. If I point out how much money they’ll save, maybe they’ll go for it.  
By the way, Gin, the back of a postcard does NOT count as a proper letter. I want two sides of A4 next time!  
Lots of love, Monica xxxxx

XXXXX

On the first day of their Easter holidays Chas, Rose and Fob came in very late for tea, looking secretive but pleased with themselves. Before Kay could ask them where they’d been, Chas shoved an old biscuit tin at her. “For you.”  
“Open it,” said Fob.  
Karen cautiously prised open the lid. “Oh. Gingerbread men!”  
“People, not men. Some of them are _girls_ ,” pointed out Fob.  
“Oh, yes, so they are. Where did you get these?”  
“We _made_ them,” said Chas, proudly. “We did it all ourselves. Mrs Bertie told us what to do. But she just told. We did all the making.”  
“We washed our hands properly,” said Rose hurriedly. “I checked Chas and Fob’s.”  
“Mrs Bertie let you in her kitchen?”  
“Oh yes,” said Chas, smugly. “She said what nice, thoughtful children we were being.”  
“You’re not going to cry again, Methren?” said Rose, anxiously. “ We thought you’d _like_ them!”  
“Oh, I do…”  
“They’re _ginger_!” said Chas, as if that explained everything.  
Rose explained, “Chas found it in the big Family Doctor book in the study. Ginger is good for stopping you feeling sick.”  
“We put an extra big teaspoon in, just to be sure,” said Chas.  
_“Look,_ ” said Fob impatiently. “They’re _us_.”  
Karen started taking the gingerbread people out of their tin. “So this man is Daddy, is it? And this lady must be me?”  
“Yes, and the middle sized ones are me, Rose and Fob.”  
“So what’s this one?”  
“That’s the baby. Only we didn’t have a small person cutter, so Rose had to do it with a knife and it’s a bit blob shaped.”  
“What’s this one then? Sam?”  
“No. That’s a spare baby, in case it’s twins.”  
“Oh, good lord!”  
“Because Mrs Bertie says twins run in families,” said Chas, hopefully. “It _might_ be, mightn’t it?”

 

XXXXX

 

Mr Merrick came in from an early morning ride on Easter Saturday to join his family for breakfast. Mrs Merrick and Patrick, both secretly glad in their own way that Good Friday with its fasting and endless services was over, were tucking into bacon and eggs.  
“Extraordinary thing,” said Anthony, pouring himself coffee. “I just bumped into Rowan Marlow. She tells me Virginia is working at a stable in Ireland. Had you heard anything about it, Pat?”  
“Nicola mentioned it in one of her letters. She got into trouble about it actually.”  
“Nicola did?” said Anthony. “What did it have to do with her? That school of theirs seems quite, quite barmy.”  
“Shall I ring for fresh eggs?” asked Helen.  
“No, no, I’ll stick with muesli, thanks.”  
Patrick, aware of his father’s dispassionate eyes regarding him, went on buttering his toast.  
“She’s obviously under a cloud with Geoff and Pam,” carried on Anthony, ignoring his wife and son’s studied lack of interest. “Rowan didn’t know anything about the place she’s gone to. Still, if I know anything about the Irish and horses, she’ll be having a great time.”  
“I’ve invited Nicola to the Vigil,” said Patrick, trying to turn his father’s interest. “She said she’d think about it.”  
“It’s the most beautiful mass of the year, of course,” said his mother, quickly. “If you are going to convert her, this’ll be the one that’ll do it.”  
“Ma!” exclaimed Patrick, scandalised and embarrassed.  
“I doubt Nicola’s the sort to be swayed by a few candles,” said Anthony, approvingly.  
Patrick reached for more toast. His father sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “You know, I wouldn’t have said that Virginia was my favourite among the Marlow children. But I can’t help worrying that she might have ended up somewhere dodgy. What sort of place would take on a runaway teenager with no references?”  
“Nicola said Ann went to visit her at half-term,” said Patrick, over the clatter of Helen dropping the marmalade spoon. “So it must be alright.”  
“Ann? The one who was Mary in the play? I expect it is alright then. Though I can see why Pam’s upset about it. I wonder what made her go off like that though? She never seemed the independent sort.”  
Patrick pushed his plate away. Mrs Merrick folded her napkin.  
“Don’t go disappearing off with the falcon, Pat,” said his father, calmly. “We’re going to confession in Colebridge this morning. You _are_ coming, aren’t you?”


	17. Easter.

Esther and the Marlows were settling down to breakfast, when Rowan came in, late as usual, having just met the postman in the drive. She circled the table, scattering envelopes in front of their respective recipients, and surreptitiously dropping an airmail letter into her own place. This went unnoticed by anyone except Peter and Nicola, who were sitting closest, and who also both noticed that it was the second such envelope to arrive that week. Neither of them commented however; Nicola because she thought it was none of her business and Peter because he had noticed Esther taking toast and was passing her the butter before she needed to ask.  
Esther was so quiet and self-effacing that most of the family barely noticed she was there, but she had had the most extraordinary effect on Peter. With Esther around, there was no Mummerset, no stealing choice titbits from Lawrie’s plate, no teasing Ann or shirking chores. Mrs Marlow had been heard to remark to Rowan, that she would happily offer the girl a permanent home if it turned Peter into such a perfect gentleman.  
Nicola had also found Esther’s presence a relief. It meant she had the perfect excuse not to go out hawking all day. Not that she didn’t still like Regina and hawking, but it had become clear to her that Buster could no longer cope. During half term, she, Peter and Lawrie had gone for a long ride, including lots of galloping and jumping. Buster had seemed to enjoy it just as much as the Idiot Boy and Catkin. But next morning, when she went to lead him out of his stable he refused to move. For a horrified moment she had thought he was lame on all four legs, and that this, surely, was the end. But Sellars told her to lead him to the end of the lane and back, and creeping painful inch by inch, Buster slowly loosened up until he was almost walking normally, though still stiff and pottery. Sellars had told her to put him in the orchard for the day, and next day she was able to take him for a short, gentle hack. But she had determined then, that she would _never_ put Buster through that again. And it was no use Patrick just assuming that she could borrow a horse whenever she wanted. Since Catkin had been sold, Rowan had told Lawrie and Peter that whichever one of them wasn't riding the Idiot could ride Prisca, in order to avert endless bickering. So it was perfect Esther being there; it meant they could have non-riding days out without fuss or explanation. Like today: they were collecting a picnic basket and the three Dodd children and going to the beach for the day, with a football for Peter, Fob and Daks to play with, a book for Rose, and the cricket set for herself, Lawrie, Esther and Chas. Chas was becoming a good fast bowler under Nicola’s tuition. Sam occasionally helped field the ball, but sometimes he switched sides and ran off with the ball while whoever was batting ran quarter centuries, and the fielders, hampered by laughter, chased after the foolish dog.  
When she’d told Patrick what they were doing, he’d made a face and said that didn’t sound like his sort of thing, thanks very much, and he’d go hawking on his own. And of course no-one would expect _Patrick_ to enjoy all that, thought Nicola in a fierce defensive rush, but she couldn’t stop the Rowan-voice in her head saying, ‘ Wouldn’t it be _nice_ if Master Patrick could put himself out for once?’  
Luckily at this point Nicola was distracted from her thoughts by the sudden realisation that everyone else was listening to a conversation between her mother and Rowan.  
“Surely last summer, when you needed extra help, you employed that nephew of Ted’s?” her mother was saying.  
“I gather he’s going travelling this year, and he was never all that keen,” answered Rowan.  
“But there must be plenty of local people? Do we _have_ to have someone who needs to live in?”  
“I don’t see why not. We’ve got plenty of room. And Denis knows about farming. He usually helps on his grandfather’s farm in the summer,” said Rowan, uncomfortably aware of five pairs of curious eyes watching her. (Peter thought, but didn’t say, ‘ _De knee_. What sort of name is that?’)  
“Do you know him well enough to have him staying here with everyone, though? What was he? Your ski instructor?”  
“Not mine, actually, no. He is a ski instructor, yes. He can give you references if you’re worried. He’s been at that same resort for the last four seasons.”  
“Don’t sound so cross, darling. You’re the manager, you can employ who you think right, of course. Why does he particularly want to come to England to work this summer if his grandfather’s got this farm in France?”  
“Well, he wants to visit England. And improve his English as well.”  
“You can’t know him all that well yet, surely?”  
“Well enough. Look if it’s a problem he can easily find lodgings or a B and B. It just seems silly when we’ve got all this space. He’s not going to steal all the silver or anything.”  
“It would be nice if we had some to steal,” replied Mrs Marlow tartly. “Well, let me think about it. I expect it will be alright.”

 

XXXXX

 

After a lot of fuss, delay and gossip, the Marlows and the Dodd children finally left Karen’s kitchen for their day at the beach, now armed with two picnics. Mrs Bertie, assuming she was providing for everyone, had given them a huge basket. Karen, unsure if she was supposed to be sending food for her three, had also packed an extra big lunch – just in case. Everyone cheerfully assured her that they were bound to eat it all, and the dogs would help with any leftovers.  
Finally they were gone, and peace descended. Karen made a flask of chocolate, and packed a few chunks of fruitcake in foil. Karen’s fruitcake was one of her great successes as a cook. From a recipe given to her by the children’s maternal grandmother, it was simple to make, and rich and filling to eat.  
After a longish walk round the most obvious places on the farm, she finally found Rowan in the ponies’ field, accompanied most unusually by Ann. They were peering under the belly of one of the mares.  
“What _are_ you doing?” she asked, as she approached.  
“I think she’s going to foal soon,” explained Rowan. “The book says their teats wax up just before. Only I’m not sure if that’s what it looks like.”  
“Haven’t you seen hundreds of animals give birth by now?”  
“Cows and sheep, yes. This is my first pony.”  
“I don’t know what the one I saw looked like earlier in the day,” said Ann. “But before she had it, she was walking round and round the stable with her tail up, trying to poo.”  
“Gosh,” said Karen, confident enough to be flippant about an event which was still six months away. “I hope when my time comes I don’t have to walk around my room with my tail up, trying to poo.”  
Ann, who had already read a couple of midwifery books, looked at Karen but thought it better to say nothing.  
“Oh well. I’ll bring her into a stable tonight and keep an eye on her,” said Rowan. “Were you wanting anything particular, Kay?”  
“Returning a favour,” said Karen, waving flask and cake.  
“What a good idea. Let’s go and sit on the bank. The grass is quite dry, I think.”  
Ann made as if to go, but Karen forestalled her, saying, “Don’t go. There’s loads for three, as long as one of us shares a cup.”  
Cake and chocolate doled out, they watched the ponies grazing in the spring sunshine. “Ro,” said Karen. “What’s all this the infants were gabbling about your French skiing teacher coming to work on the farm and learn English?”  
“’Sright. Except he’s not ‘my’ skiing teacher. He takes people down the black runs and I wasn’t quite _that_ level yet.”  
“I’d have thought he’d have to have quite good English to work as an instructor?” said Karen suspiciously.  
“Perfect, actually.”  
“Is he going to see much of England, working on the farm?”  
“He’ll see the bits he _wants_ to see,” said Rowan, as their eyes met.  
Karen sighed. “Do you know what you’re doing? It can be so awkward having someone stay with the family. Edwin and I nearly didn’t survive the whole thing last year.”  
“I do remember,” said Rowan.  
“You have to cope with everyone being nosey, and going out of their way to be cheeky..”  
“I know. I think Denis will have Peter’s measure though. And we won’t be sitting around in the evening being polite. We keep working while it’s light in the summer, haymaking and harvest.”  
“Very ‘Cider with Rosie’?”  
“What you ought to do,” said Ann, suddenly and unexpectedly, “Is do up Peter’s room for him to stay in.”  
“You mean the old shippen? Be a bit hard on Peter, wouldn’t it? It’s been pretty much his for ages,” said Rowan. “It could definitely work though.”  
“He could use an empty stable for a workshop instead,” suggested Karen. “And he’d get it back for the Christmas holidays.”  
“Hmm. I shall see if I can have a tactful word with Peter later,” said Rowan, getting up. As the girls stood up and headed off in three separate directions, the mares carried on grazing, oblivious to them. They were aware of the newly hot sun on their backs, the April breeze that picked at mane and tail and the rich juiciness of the spring grass. And that was all they needed to know about.

Late that night Ann, stirring from a light sleep, heard a step on the stairs and a door quietly shutting. She peered through her curtains and saw a light in the direction of the stables. Suddenly curious and wide awake, she too slipped downstairs and pulled boots and coat over her pyjamas.  
As she reached the stable yard, she slowed and trod hesitantly, as it occurred to her that her presence might be unwelcome. But Rowan turned at the sound of her footsteps, and whispered quite cheerfully, “Nothing yet.”  
The mare, disgruntled at being shut in a stable instead of out in her field, stood sturdily pulling at her hay. She cast them an unfriendly look, and carried on calmly eating as they stood looking over the stable door watching her.  
“Ann,” said Rowan, breaking a few moments silence. “Are you still annoyed with us – _me_ , I mean really, about that business at Christmas?”  
Ann was too astonished to speak immediately, and Rowan rushed on, in an if-I-don’t-say-it-now-I-never-will kind of way. “Because I could have – _should_ have – done things differently. And you were right - what we did _was_ stupid. I’ve thought that ever since really, and I didn’t want to go on forever not saying it.”  
Ann hesitated. Even to this strangely uncertain Rowan, she didn’t think she could tell the whole truth. The hurt, cross anger she had felt had lodged inside her all term, like a poisoned abscess. Then early one morning during Lent, in the school chapel, it had come to her that harbouring anger was wrong – a sin really, and she was going to have to make a positive effort to let it go. And once she had made that decision it surprised her how suddenly light and carefree she felt, as if someone else entirely was lifting her up.  
And because she couldn’t say all that, in case Rowan made a slightly older version of Lawrie’s ‘welly icky’ noise, she simply said, “It’s alright. I don’t feel angry any more. With any of you. Though I do think Giles should have known better.”  
“Yes, he certainly should,” said Rowan, sounding relieved. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen tonight with this lady. She really doesn’t look as if she’s about to foal. Shall we go back to bed?”

Early next morning, when a still yawning Rowan went out to check on the mare, she was surprised to find a new bay colt, curled up asleep in the straw. The mare simply gave her an inscrutable Fob-like look, as if to say, ‘See what you know?’


	18. A Nasty Accident.

Easter was no holiday for anyone at Sweetwall. There were point-to-points on both Easter Saturday and Easter Monday for the racehorses, and outings for the young eventers, which left Sunday as an island of calm in which horseboxes were cleaned out and repacked for the following day. The treat cupboard in the kitchen was filled with crème eggs though, which was a bonus for Ginty, who could eat three in a row without feeling sick, to Mrs M’s horrified amazement.  
On the Saturday, they took Theo and Tudor to a cross-country ‘go as you please’ ride. They tossed a coin to decide who rode Tudor as he was not a favourite of either of theirs. Gemma lost. Ginty offered to ride him anyway, aware that Gemma felt no enthusiasm whatsoever at the prospect, but Gemma grinned resignedly and turned her down. As it turned out, with Theo to follow, Tudor behaved perfectly and jumped everything that Theo jumped.  
On Monday, Robin and Amber went to their first one-day-event and finished – not exactly covered in glory – but very respectably for their first time, having an odd knock-down in the show-jumping, and an inexperienced run-out on the cross-country each.  
As Tudor seemed to be coming round to their way of thinking, it was decided to take him to the next event, along with Moth and Nora. Finn had banged his leg while fooling around in the paddock so was sidelined for a few days. Mrs M wanted to see how Ginty got on with Tudor, so it was her turn to ride him. Within the relatively safe confines of the dressage arena and show-jumping ring, he behaved treacherously perfectly; performing a polished dressage test and jumping clear. At the start of the cross-country he seemed keen, jumping the first two fences willingly enough. Then the course curved away from the warm-up area and horse-box park, Tudor suddenly realised he was going away from all the other horses and slammed on the brakes, refusing point-blank to go any further. Ginty used legs, hands, and whip but Tudor simply whipped round, bouncing on the spot in half-rears. Increasingly angry, Ginty picked up her whip and gave him a real back-hander, which only made Tudor rear so high that she was lucky he didn’t come over backwards. They were never close enough to the jump to be officially eliminated for three refusals, but after Ginty had been struggling with him for long enough that it was obvious that he wasn’t going to go, the jump judges beeped their horn, and she had to retreat ignominiously. She led him back to the lorry in utter humiliation. Gemma hastily took him off her, and she disappeared into the living, wanting to do nothing more than burst into furious, frustrated tears like a toddler throwing a tantrum. But Mrs M was only two seconds behind her, and catching her firmly but gently by the arm, told her that it had happened to _everyone_ , it _wasn’t_ her fault, and she had to take a few deep breaths and calm down. She was riding _Moth_ next, and Moth didn’t know anything about her _other_ rides, so Ginty had to come back out calm and focused and forget about what had just happened. Mrs M made her a cup of tea, while she talked, then left her alone, feeling not exactly cheered up but at least no longer about to howl like a baby. And when she came out to ride Moth, he whinnied at her in a way that could have been designed to lift her spirits. Neither did he let her down; loving every minute, he completed the course with a fast, clear round that restored all her faith in herself as a rider.

XXXXX

Mrs M had asked around and been given the number of a maths tutor, who agreed to come once a week for a session on Ginty’s afternoon off. He was an awkwardly shy young man, who by his own admission had not been able to cope with the behaviour in the secondary schools he had been unfortunate enough to work in. But he was an excellent tutor for Ginty, explaining techniques so clearly that things like quadratic equations which she had never understood before suddenly made sense. When they took a break from work, he occasionally amused Ginty with eye-opening stories from his days of trying to be a teacher. With a growing awareness of how sheltered she had been at Kingscote, she wondered how Miss Cromwell – her most frightening teacher – would have dealt with pupils who _weren’t_ scared of a raised eyebrow.  
In the evenings she worked through the practice papers her tutor left her. She also tried to make notes from her English set texts, and – Ann’s idea – wrote short and rather dull letters in French and German to both Ann and Monica as practice for her language exams. She invariably fell asleep over her books though, and often found herself wondering if she wasn’t being completely mad to even try to do this.

XXXXX

 

There was a natural ebb and flow of horses on the yard. Mares who had been away at stud returned, hopefully in foal, and were turned out for the summer. Others, who had been kept at home to foal, were sent away to be covered.  
Rupert, winning his second race in confident style, caught the eye of an English trainer over on a shopping trip to Ireland, was sold and left for the racing valley of Lambourn. Hannibal, winning again, came back from the races with ‘a bit of a leg’, and was confined to box rest for the rest of the season.  
As the days lengthened and the nights became milder, the older foals were allowed to stay out at night with their mothers. As spare stables became free, they were filled with three year olds, ready to start the long process of being broken in, and reminding Ginty with their starts and surprises, that handling wild horses really _wasn’t_ her favourite thing.

“Blacksmith day,” said Gemma, as Ginty joined her on the yard one bright, rain-washed morning. “It’s going to be hectic. As soon as we’ve fed, we need to go and herd all the two year old boys into the pen to dry off before Mal gets here. They’re all due for trimming. At least it’s stopped raining, but their feet are all going to be wet and muddy still.”  
As they bumped up a rutted track between fields, in the battered old car that was kept for general use round the farm, they roughly planned their day. “I don’t know how much we’ll get done with the older ones today,” said Gemma. “There’s so much needs holding for the farrier. It might have to be a quick lunge later.”  
“How about I keep riding while you’re holding horses for Mal?” said Ginty helpfully.  
“If it was only Mal, yes, but there’ll be Stewart too, so they’ll need two of us. For the two year olds, and then both the three year olds, anyway. And Moth still needs holding really. After that, the others are ok.”  
Ginty resigned herself to the dreaded task of hanging on to young horses who didn’t want their feet picked up, thank you very much. Actually, her offering to carry on riding while Gemma dealt with them wasn’t quite as cheeky as it might have been. In the last couple of weeks they had settled into a pattern of Mrs M teaching Ginty in the school every day on at least one, and usually two, of the young horses, doing either dressage schooling or jumping. By Gemma’s own cheerful admission, although she liked doing the ‘baby stuff’ with them, the more advanced the horses got, the less able she felt to do them justice; an attitude that Ginty found mystifyingly unambitious. In contrast, Gemma positively enjoyed breaking in the three year olds. Ginty found it interesting to see how it was done, but felt no desire to spend all that time handling, lunging and long-reining. In general, their different roles dovetailed perfectly.  
The large, rolling field that the two-year-olds were currently living in had a gate opening into a round pen. Well fenced, with a hayrack and water trough set into the fences, and hard standing underfoot, it was designed to be a safe enclosed space where a vet or farrier could work. Gemma rattled a feed bucket and the two year olds ambled over to see what was going on. They all entered the pen, following the food, but starting to squeal and shove each other to get near it. Ginty shut the gate hastily after them. Gemma scattered the food, and beat a speedy retreat.  
They left them to settle down, and drove back to the yard to muck out. As it turned out they were ready and organised long before the farrier turned up. Mal arrived later than expected, and as he swung his van door open they could hear the distinct sounds of Classic FM instead of his usual Radio 2, a sure sign that he was in a bad mood. Stewart, jumping out of the passenger door, grimaced at them meaningly. When he told them where they’d come from, all was made clear – a yard which was famously always short-staffed because no-one could stand it there for more than a few months. As they all drove up to the two-year-olds’ pen, Gemma, who’d been friends with a girl who’d worked there, filled Ginty in on the horrors of the place, including an ‘evil’ boss who yelled all the time. “You don’t know you’re born here, Ginty,” said Mal, starting to recover his good humour. Ginty who had often complained in the past to Stewart about how often Mrs M yelled at her, caught his eye and grinned.  
The youngsters had had time to calm down in the pen, and the first two were easily caught. The warm sunshine made the young horses disinclined to be fractious, and they were able to gossip as they worked. Who was rumoured to be seeing who among local trainers and riders; the colt foal just born on a neighbouring farm that was a full brother to a Cheltenham winner; gently teasing Stewart about his girlfriend who had come to visit over the Easter weekend; who had done what in the pub the previous weekend. Once the horses’ feet were all trimmed, they opened the gate and allowed them to wander back into their field. Slowly at first, then shaking their heads and breaking into a gallop, the young horses careered away across the grass. Meanwhile, the hard working humans had to pile back into the van and career back along the track.  
Stewart was not yet qualified to actually put the shoes on, so as far as possible he and Mal worked as a pair; Stewart removing the old shoes and rasping the feet, Mal fitting and nailing the shoes, then Stewart finishing off filing and banging down clenches. One of them worked in a stable that was kept empty with the floor swept clean for vets and farriers to use, while the other worked just outside in an area kept sheltered by the overhang of the stable roof. Gemma held on to each of the three year olds in turn, while Ginty had first Moth, and then Amber.  
The morning was dragging for Ginty, who wished they could get all this over with and start riding. Amber was usually good enough when being shod not to need holding, but today she was uncharacteristically fidgety and ill at ease. Ginty, who been about to tack up Finn, had to leave him, and come to stand at Amber’s head. What no one knew yet was that she was coming into season and feeling unsettled and prickly.  
Stewart had finished off the horse he was doing, and Gemma called out to warn Mal she was bringing the horse out. The doorway she came out of was a long way behind Amber, and there was no danger of the horses kicking each other, so the warning was a routine precaution. Mal barely heeded, about to try the shoe on her hind foot. But Amber, suddenly aware of a horse in her rear view at the same time as something touched her hind leg lashed out with a squeal of anger.  
Somebody yelled. Metal tools clattered ringing on the ground. Gemma’s young horse trotted loose across the yard. Behind Amber, slumped on the floor, with his arm bent all the wrong way, was Mal. Gemma and Stewart stood over him, faces stricken. His head, where it lay against the wall, was bleeding.  
“Get Amber away,” Gemma told Ginty, fiercely. “Stu, call the ambulance!” Stewart, his face very white, obeyed. Ginty pulled Amber into her stable, then realised she had better catch the other horse and put it away. This took her a while as it jittered away from her, sensing her panic. By the time she had grabbed a food bucket to tempt it with, it had found its own stable door open and wandered in. She slammed the door after it, then forced herself to return to the unconscious figure on the floor. Gemma had covered him with a horse blanket, and was crouched awkwardly to hold a thick layer of gauze against the place on his head from where blood was oozing.  
Stewart returned to say the ambulance was on its way. “Better call Hazel,” said Gemma, then as Stewart looked horrified, added, “No, better Mrs M does it. Ginty, find her and ask her.” Hugely relieved to have something useful to do, Ginty ran.  
She found Mrs M in her office and Mrs M, grasping the situation surprisingly quickly given Ginty’s breathless explanation grabbed the phone. “Run to the bottom of the drive and look out for the ambulance,” she told Ginty, and Ginty ran again.  
After only a few shivering minutes spent looking desperately down the lane, the ambulance nosed into view. Ginty waved frantically.  
The ambulance drivers were astonishingly calm and purposeful, thought Ginty. Never hurrying, always deliberate, it seemed a long time before Mal was on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. Mrs M said she would follow it to the hospital and stay till Hazel could get there.  
Silence fell after ambulance and car drove away. Blood, still bright red, stained the angle between wall and floor. Gemma found a bucket of water, and threw it viciously at the place; then suddenly shaken and trembling, disappeared into the nearest stable.  
Stewart eyed Ginty cautiously. “You Ok?”  
She nodded dumbly.  
“I’d better take the van home, I suppose. And ring round everyone else we were going to. Will you tell Craig?”  
By the time Ginty had walked the half mile to the stableyard where the racehorses were based, told the story to Craig and the others, and walked back, Gemma had reappeared, cleaned up the yard, and was soberly measuring out the lunchtime feeds.  
It was a long, depressing afternoon. Amber, with her half-shod feet, stayed in her stable. They worked the others as briefly as they could, and performed all the routine tasks automatically, in near silence. Ginty occasionally tried to say something about what had happened but Gemma cold and distant, didn’t respond.  
At length the work was all done, the afternoon drew to a close and there was nothing left to do, except wait. Ginty, alone in the empty house, couldn’t face her books, and was trying to watch some rubbish on TV, when at last she heard wheels on the gravel outside. The dogs rushed to the door joyously, but both they and Ginty had to wait again, as nobody came in. Eventually Mrs M did come stamping through the door. “Sorry,” she said. “I know you were waiting too, but I just nipped over to Gemma’s cottage to tell her. He’s come round, thank goodness, but he’s pretty dopey. Doesn’t remember a thing about what happened. They’ve patched him up a bit, but they’re going to set the arm properly tomorrow. It’s quite a bad break. But the main thing they were worried about was the concussion. He was awake when I left, but they’ll keep him under close observation for a few days.”  
“Hazel’s with him, anyway,” Mrs M carried on, “And her brother’s looking after the kids. But gosh, how I hate hospitals. I could do with something strong to drink, and you too, Ginty from the look of you.”

XXXXX

In the small hours of the morning, Ginty woke, trapped in her duvet and sweating. Someone had cried out, and she realised that it must have been her. Still caught in her dream, she stared through the darkness at the seemingly unfamiliar room. Fauntleroy anxiously snuffled at her, and stroking his floppy ears, the nightmare receded. It had come from the deepest corners of her mind, long pushed away. Clearly she had been dreaming about the accident; but she had been on an endlessly twisting staircase, and the fallen figure crumpled on the floor with the strangely hanging arm and the battered face had not been Mal the farrier at all.


	19. Divertissement.

When Miss Keith had announced that each form was to make their own contribution to the summer show, Lawrie had seen it as a glorious opportunity for her to do Caliban at last. They could do all his best scenes, she argued, and had been duly hurt when Tim said, “Oh don’t be such a nit. Even you should see _they’ll_ never let us do _that_!”  
Before it could turn into a proper argument, the decision was made for them anyway. Miss Kempe came in to their class during form-time. With as much sympathy as she deemed tactful, she told them that Miss Keith was still ‘very keen’ to have some extracts from the ‘Sound of Music’ in the show, and she particularly wanted to hear Nicola Marlow singing at least one of Julie Andrews’ songs solo. Her especial favourite was ‘My Favourite Things’. So if they could do that one, and then choose two others…Miss Kempe dropped this bombshell, and then whisked out of the door, pretending to not hear the uproar that broke out in the class after the door closed behind her.

Upper IV had the Easter holidays to be variously depressed (Nicola, Lawrie, Tim) or pleased (Jean, Liz. Pomona) about it. Then in their first Free Period after the holidays they gathered to plan what they were going to do. As the chatter died down, people looked around expectantly, wondering who was going to start. Into the falling silence, Tim announced, “If we’re not allowed to choose what we’re going to do, _I_ don’t want to have anything to do with it.”  
“You can’t just not be in it,” protested Laurie.  
“I’ll stand where you tell me, and open and shut my mouth when you tell me. But I’m not doing any of the organising,” replied Tim firmly.  
If she had expected a collective gasp of dismay, she didn’t get it. Miranda left a just long enough pause then said tentatively, “If you _really_ don’t want to do it, I will?”  
“Feel free. It’s all yours,” said Tim magnanimously.  
“Well, Ok then. We’ve got to do ‘My Favourite Things’ obviously, which is mostly Nick.” Miranda eyed her friend’s unenthusiastic face.  
“You could always change the words a bit,” said Tim. “ Instead of whiskers on kittens, you know. It could be cannons on warships.”  
Lawrie gave a crow of laughter. “Hawk-bells on falcons!”  
Someone else shouted, “Cricket balls on wickets!”  
A wag at the back of the room called out, “Chocolate on fudge cake!”  
“Nelson on Victory!”  
Nicola glowered. Miranda said, “Ok. Ok. Joke’s over! _Shut up_ – we don’t need any more! Only what I thought is, if Nicola starts it, then we come in one at a time, best voices first, until by the end we’re all singing it.”  
Nicola looked interested in spite of herself. “So you first, then Esther?” She smiled quickly at Esther, who didn’t seem obviously stricken at the idea of joining in if she and Miranda were already singing.  
“Probably. We’ll work out the details later. But now we have to choose two other songs,” added Miranda.  
“Actually, Miranda,” said Liz. “I’ve been wondering. Could we do the goatherd one, and then we could make life size puppets like they have in the film?” Some of her friends who also liked sewing, and art generally, made keenly agreeing noises.  
“Hmm. Good idea. Only how would we work them? We haven’t got a balcony to lean over,” said Miranda.  
Before anyone could hatch dangerous plans involving homemade platforms, Lawrie said, “We could _act_ the puppets.”  
“How?”  
“Like this,” said Lawrie, getting up from her seat. She stood still a moment and then walked across the room. Where there had been a schoolgirl, suddenly there was a puppet being moved by strings.  
“Lawrie, that’s good!” “Go on, do some more!”  
The Lawrie puppet did a funny little dance, then mimed yodelling across the mountains.  
Miranda shook herself. There were no mountains, but for a second Lawrie had made them be there.  
“That’s perfect! We’ll do it like that!” she said, then noticed Liz looking disappointed. “I tell you what. What if we have a normal size puppet theatre, with some puppets in it, at the side or back of the stage, and we can be gathered round it as if we’re looking at it while we sing, and then Lawrie and another puppet can come on and act it all out at the front. So Liz, you can be in charge of the theatre and the costumes.”  
“Who’s going to be the other one?” Several people were already up, fooling around and trying to act puppets. Most of them, thought Miranda critically, looked more like malfunctioning robots.  
“Pippin,” she ordered. “Can you try?”  
Pomona, sitting harmlessly in her seat, looked surprised, but got up and went to the front. She let her head loll, then stood limply, a puppet hanging by its strings, waiting to be controlled. “Am I the boy one or the girl?” she asked.  
Lawrie-the-puppet made an obscene gesture that made everyone giggle. “You’re the girl,” said Miranda hastily.  
Lawrie strutted, showed off. Pippin-the-puppet was pulled into life, simpered, hid her head behind a jerkily raised arm and peeped round it to admire the prancing goatherd. Upper IV sat in open admiration.  
“Great. Lawrie and Pippin are the puppets,” said Miranda. “Now for the last song. Shall we have a vote on which ones we like?”  
Jean suggested ‘Edelweiss’. Berenice asked for ‘Climb Every Mountain’. Everything else was ruled out so they held a vote, and ‘Climb Every Mountain’ won.  
“We should do it the opposite way round to the first song,” suggested Pomona.  
“Sorry, I don’t follow?”  
Pomona explained, “We all start singing it as a choir. Then we drop down to just you three. Then the last lines could be just Nicola.”  
Miranda looked at her with pleased respect. “Yes, we’ll try it out like that and see how it goes.”

It worked rather well, Miranda thought at subsequent rehearsals. Even though she disliked the trite, simplistic and, to her, unrealistic message, there was something about Nicola’s voice as it soared in the last two lines that sent magnificent shivers down her spine.  
‘Climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every rainbow, till you find your dream.’


	20. Going To The Bad?

Ginty woke again in the night. She knew she must have had the dream again. Even though the images receded and eluded her, the feeling of helpless panic stayed with her through the relief of waking. She lay groggily awake, too exhausted to put the light on and read, even though she knew she wouldn’t sleep again. She rolled over, trying to find a good position to lie in. She had a bad bruise on her arm, caused by a silly fall from Finn, which made it hard to get comfortable. The rain which had been pattering against the window when she went to bed had stopped, and even Fauntleroy wasn’t snoring. Her thoughts expanded to fill the silent room.  
The day after Mal’s accident, she had been slow and stupid from her broken night’s sleep, and Finn fooling around had been too quick for her. The tiredness was bad enough but she also felt shaky and weepy. Even Robin, sensing her mood, had played up, and Mrs M had snapped at her, “Wake up, Ginty! Anyone would think you were the one who’d been in hospital with a sore head!” She was used to reprimands on the yard, but she had never yet been told off when riding and she had to turn away sharply so that Mrs M didn’t see the tears start in her eyes.  
It was ridiculous to be so upset when everyone and everything else was carrying on as normal. The eternal routine of feeding, mucking out and exercising went on regardless of human dramas. Mal’s arm had been set in a cast, and after a couple of days he had been allowed home from hospital. Stewart was spending his days helping out the farrier who was covering as much as possible for Mal. They turned up to finish off the most urgent work left undone on the day of the accident, including Amber’s hind feet.  
“Hold on tight,” said the farrier cheerfully to Ginty, who was holding her. “I don’t want this one taking _my_ head off!” He took his time, talking to Amber as he moved round her, and never noticed Ginty suddenly blinking away tears. Amber, her bad mood forgotten, gave no trouble.  
She was feeling almost as bad as she had through that lonely spring term at home after that awful weekend on the lighthouse. She had spent it fetching and carrying for Lawrie with her broken leg. Lawrie had played on her injuries something rotten of course, but at least everyone could _see_ she had something broken. With Ginty, her mother had used the ‘I’m-being-very-cheerful-and-patient’ voice that people use when they really _aren’t_ feeling either cheerful or patient. Both her mother and father were obviously wondering why she had to be in such a state, and why she couldn’t just cope with events the way Nicola and Peter apparently had. As if, thought Ginty crossly, she actually _wanted_ to feel that way. Of course she wanted to go back to school. Of course she wanted to forget about the fact that they had nearly all been killed. Instead of which she just kept uncontrollably crying at the stupidest of little things. She couldn’t make the simplest of decisions. Odd things set her off shaking, which she sometimes couldn’t stop for an hour at a time, till her exasperated mother sent her to bed. Finally being sent back to school, where she didn’t have to pretend to be alright in the face of her parents’ incomprehension, had been a relief, and falling into the clutches of Unity a welcome distraction.  
But she didn’t know what she was going to do now. Work helped, and so did riding, when it was all going well. But she felt more nervous than ever around the mares and the youngsters.  
Ginty finally drifted back to sleep just as light was starting to show at the edges of the curtains. The alarm woke her soon after.  
It wasn’t a bad day to start with. There was a real promise of summer in the sunshine and the horses felt relaxed. Mrs M asked to see Ginty on Tudor in the school, and unusually asked Gemma to come in too to help with the jumps. Having warmed up over a small grid, they then put up three separate jumps and told Ginty to canter over them in a mini course. After each time round, they put each jump up higher. “Just the same speed, Ginty, no faster,” said Mrs M. Rather surprised, because usually her jumping sessions were about technique rather than height, Ginty obeyed. Tudor cleared the higher fences without a problem, and Mrs M put them up once more. In the confined space of the school, the fences looked enormous. Ginty felt elated just looking at the sheer size of the jump, but keeping her focus, approached them in a contained canter and Tudor, gathering his weight on his hocks and tucking his forefeet into his chest, cleared them perfectly.  
“OK, let him rest. That was jolly well ridden,” said Mrs M approvingly. As Ginty walked Tudor around on a long rein, Mrs M and Gemma were deep in discussion.  
Ginty found out what it was all about later, when she and Gemma were riding out Robin and Nora. Tudor was going to be sent to Mrs M’s son Patrick, to try show-jumping. Then he was going to be hunted through the winter, in the hope that would improve his temperament. “He’s obviously not cut out for eventing. And he can’t be sold to just anyone, the way he naps,” said Gemma.  
Their next job was to turn out a mare and foal. They had been kept in for a routine vet visit, and now the mare was stamping around the stable, desperate to get outside. As Ginty clipped the lead rope on her headcollar, she stormed through the door. Ginty, only just avoiding being squashed against the door, whacked her elbow against it and yelped. The mare towed Ginty along the farm road towards her field, with Gemma following behind with the foal. Seeing other mares and foals gathered near the gate, the over-excited mare lunged forward. There was the briefest of seconds where Ginty could have braced herself and tugged at the mare’s head and kept her under control, but stumbling, she let the lead rope slip slightly and the mare plunged forward and was gone. She galloped towards her field and her friends. The foal, which Gemma was still just holding onto even though it was leaping desperately, whinnied after its departing mother. Ginty ran, both after the runaway horse and away from the furious look on Gemma’s face. The mare realising she had left her foal behind, had slowed and was turning round to come back, when with appallingly unlucky timing three ridden racehorses came along the lane. Seeing a loose horse clattering around, they broke into an excited jog, and the one Craig was riding started to plunge. There was a horrible confused moment of squealing and legs lashing out, then Craig was on his feet with the reins of an excited racehorse in one hand and the mare’s rope in the other. Ginty ran up, grabbed the mare and pulled her away. Miraculously, the horses hadn’t managed to kick each other, and Gemma was at the field gate with the by now hysterical foal.  
“Jesus, Ginty, are you trying to kill us all?!” said Craig, once mare and foal were safely in the field. His horse was still snorting and whirling around at the end of its reins. He said it cheerfully, obviously as a jest and the other lads picked up the joke and ran with it.  
“She’s taken a fancy to the ambulance driver, so she has!” “She’d like us better if we were unconscious!”  
Gemma walked back without saying anything, silently massaging the rope burn marks on her hand with her fingers. By the time the lads had all ridden away, Ginty was able to tentatively say sorry, and Gemma was able to shrug and say that these things happened, no harm done.  
Craig’s words, meant as a stupid joke, circled in Ginty’s mind like roosting starlings. If this morning had ended up as another accident, it would have been her fault. Clearly she wasn’t any good at this job and would be better off packing it in.

XXXXX

As they finished evening stables, Gemma asked if Ginty would like to come down to the pub. Apparently Mal was like a bear with a sore head stuck in the house, according to Hazel, so she was bringing him out for a drink. Ginty would have said no, but she knew Mrs M was due to be out all evening, and at the moment she hated being in the house on her own.  
Luckily Stewart was in the pub too, which cheered her up. Mal was seated at one of the long wooden tables, with a few drinks lining up in front of him.  
“Are you supposed to be drinking all that?” asked Gemma, sitting down.  
“A few drinks aren’t going to make anything worse.”  
It was the first time they had seen him since the accident, and Ginty looked at him cautiously. His arm was in a plaster cast, which his children had obviously been drawing all over. He wore a beanie hat over the dressing on his head, which looked incongruous on what was a mild evening. Catching her eye he grinned at her.  
“I hear I made a mess of your nice clean yard the other day. Spilling blood all over the place and lying about in untidy heaps.”  
“It’s not a _joke_!” said Gemma, with a sudden angry catch in her voice.  
There was a bustle about the table then, as Stewart and Hazel joined them, carrying more drinks, but Ginty heard Mal say “I’m sorry” in a low voice. What was he sorry for, she thought.  
It was a noisy, friendly evening. More people came and went. More drinks were bought. Conversation ebbed and flowed, but Ginty felt increasingly out of it. Stewart caught her on her own and asked her if she was all right.  
She hesitated. She hadn’t meant to make a story of it but the words came out. She knew it was _her_ fault Mal had been hurt. She felt horribly guilty. It was making her nervous around the horses, feeling that she was to blame and worrying that it would happen again.  
Stewart looked blank. “Honestly, no-one thinks it was your fault. How could it be?” He sounded so matter-of-fact and dismissive, Ginty felt herself brought up short with a start.  
Stewart looked at her curiously, then said, more kindly, “Things like that just happen sometimes. Mal was hurrying because we were running late, and he just took the horse for granted, instead of making sure she knew he was there. That’s what he says anyway.” Clearly the subject was closed as far as Stewart was concerned and he rejoined the group around their table.  
Ginty stayed a little while longer, then told Gemma she was tired and thought she would walk back. Gemma offered to leave too as she was driving, but Ginty said, no, she needed some fresh air and would rather walk.  
It was a clear, fine spring evening, and the colour was just starting to fade from the sky as she walked home. The hedges were alive with late birdsong. Sheep and lambs bleated in the fields as they continually lost and found each other. As she walked, Ginty tried to reword the conversation she’d had with Stewart in her head. What had she been thinking of? Had she really been expecting Unity Logan style-sympathy?  
Her gloomy thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a car horn. Craig’s battered old car pulled up beside her, and Craig, flinging open the passenger door, shouted at her, “Ginty, there’s horses out on the road. Can you come and help me catch them?”  
She jumped in, and almost without waiting for her to shut her door, Craig drove off. “Where are they?” she asked, hastily plugging in her seat belt.  
“I just had a call to say there’s horses wandering along the road up on the hill. It must be the fillies if they’re ours.” A mixed group of yearling and two year old fillies lived in a huge field, up a steep hill the other side of the farm. Dusk was shading the sky as they drove up the long, narrow lane, Craig crunching gears and racing the engine up the hill. He slowed as they came to the field gate. At the padlocked end the gate still hung on its post, but it had been lifted clean off the hinges at the other end, and hung tilted across the entrance to the field. “Damn,” said Craig, driving on very slowly. Soon they saw the loose horses, grazing on the grass verge. Some were climbing the bank at the side of the road to get the best grass, others were wandering along the road.  
Craig reversed. They parked on the other side of the field gate, blocking as much of the road as they could. “If we can catch one or two, we’ll lead them in,” said Craig, handing Ginty lead ropes. “If not, we’ll have to try and herd them.” They approached the fillies quietly, Craig rattling a feed bucket gently.  
“Try and catch that bay one, she’s usually quiet. If I can get the ring-leader, the others might follow.” He was aiming for a wild-eyed chestnut with a broad splash of white down her face. She rolled her eyes and swung away. At that moment Ginty heard the rising sound of a car - a car coming fast, from the other side of the fillies, around the curve of the road. She darted through them and ran to the bend of the road, waving both arms frantically in the air. With a horrendous screech the car stopped finally, barely two feet from where she stood.  
“Jesus Christ, what the f*** are you playing at?!” yelled the driver.  
Her heart hammering, Ginty gasped, “There’s loose horses on the road!”  
The driver swore again, but contritely. He became instantly helpful, turning on his hazard lights and getting out of his car to help block the road, while Ginty went back to herd the fillies.  
Craig had just caught one, and was coaxing it reluctantly towards the field. With Ginty behind them the others followed, and they turned back into their field without any fuss. As the fillies cantered off into the deepening dusk, they pulled the gate shut and heaved it back onto its hinges. The driver of the car, seeing the horses safely in their field, drove up and stopped to help. “Christ, I’m glad you stopped me. I wouldn’t have liked to plough into that lot. Though for a horrible minute I thought I was going to hit you!” Ginty smiled rather shakily.  
“Someone’s been buggering around with this gate,” said Craig. “I’ll have to chain up this end too.”  
The driver, having been thanked, and given some tips for the weekend’s racing, drove off. Craig drove Ginty home. “That was a good job, Ginty,” he said.  
“Sometimes I don’t think I’m much good with the horses,” said Ginty, suddenly and honestly.  
“You’re joking me? You’re a great wee rider!”  
“I don’t mind anything riding. It’s doing things with them on the ground I’m nervous of,” admitted Ginty.  
“Well, that’s not unusual,” said Craig, sounding unsurprised. “I’ve heard more than a few jockeys say as much. The safest place is in the saddle.”  
“But if I’m going to be any use in a job I’ve got to stop being like this.”  
“Well, it’s only time you need. You get more confident with a bit of experience. You’ve only been at it a few months.”  
“Is that all, d’you think?”  
“Course it is. Horses are buggers too, they’ll play you up when you’re new to it. In a year or two you’ll be wondering what you were worrying about.”  
“Oh,” said Ginty, trusting his tone as much as his words.  
“Don’t worry about a thing, Ginty,” said Craig, as they pulled up outside the house. “You did alright tonight.”  
It wasn’t the most lavish or glowing praise she had ever had. But for now it was all she needed.


	21. Going To The Good.

Telling the truth about her fear to Craig had been exhilarating, but it wasn’t enough. Ginty thought it was rather like the moment when, having swum across the whole swimming bath underwater as she and Monica used to do, you surfaced for a glorious gasp of air. That first breath was a relief, but then you had to go on panting for a bit until your breathing got back to normal.  
Having discovered that it was actually quite unshocking to _admit_ that you were nervous, Ginty wanted to talk about it properly. It wasn’t long before she found a chance to talk to Gemma.  
Gemma had been telling her what to expect at Punchestown, and what she was going to have to do. The list of things she was going to have to remember was growing dauntingly long. “But don’t worry,” said Gemma cheerfully. “ Elaine will tell you quick enough if you’re not doing something you should be.”  
“Where did you and Elaine meet?”  
“The first place I worked? It was a small competition yard, mostly liveries and dressage horses, and they ran BHS events and dressage shows too.”  
“Did your parents mind when you started working with horses?”  
“They just really didn’t _get_ it. My father never even tried. My mum used to try to take an interest but it was hopeless. We’d be frantically busy with a BHS event and she’d ask how the _gymkhana_ went. Anyway, how about your lot? Have they come round to you doing horses yet?”  
Ginty wondered. “I don’t know what Daddy thinks really. He writes to Mum and she passes news on if there is anything we need to know. I think Mum’s got used to the idea at least.” The conversation suddenly seemed to have gone the way Ginty wanted it to. “But I was starting to think I might not be cut out for this. I get nervous when the horses play up, on the ground I mean, not riding.”  
Gemma looked unmoved. “You’ve started at the deep end, that’s all. Most people start work in riding schools or competition yards, and you’ve come to a stud where there are a lot of youngsters to deal with. You just need experience.”  
“Is that all?”  
“Sure. A few months ago you couldn’t do anything except ride. We don’t expect the horses to do every thing at once. Just give yourself a bit of time.”  
“Oh.” Ginty thought about it. At home it had always seemed implicit that you just _were_ competent at things without even trying. She remembered how surprised the twins had been that they weren’t automatically in the top set when they started school. For the first time ever she felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Rowan whom everyone had just assumed _would_ be able to run the farm. Since being at Sweetmore she had absorbed a glimmering of an idea of what was involved in running a large estate and it seemed horrifying to her now that anyone would take on that responsibility without a farming background or years of experience.  
Gemma broke into her thoughts, “ I remember when I started. It was embarrassing how hopeless I was. There was this one pony who used to take the complete piss. It makes me laugh now, thinking back.” She paused and gave Ginty a speculative look. “But anyway, it’s not as if you _want_ to spend the rest of your life doing studwork, is it? Wait till you’ve been to Punchestown and seen what a three-day-event is all about!”

 

XXXXX

 

Gemma couldn’t have been more right. From the moment they arrived and Ginty saw the horsebox park full of gleaming lorries, most emblazoned with sponsors’ logos and the names of well-known riders she was entranced. All the familiar sights and sounds that she loved at horse- shows were there, but bigger, brighter and shinier.  
They arrived later than planned. They had left home early in the morning, with Tudor in the lorry, planning to drop him off at Patrick’s yard, before arriving at Punchestown in plenty of time to see Tom warm up his horse Spirit Bear before his dressage test. Various minor traffic jams had whittled away the time, and they finally parked at Punchestown ten minutes before Tom was due to go.  
They jogged towards the dressage area. Ginty found it both gratifying and shy making to be with Mrs M, whom everyone seemed to know. Even faces known to Ginty from the cover of Horse and Hound seemed pleased to see her, but Mrs M waved off greetings promising to catch up later. All the top Irish and English riders were there, along with a fair smattering of European, Australian and New Zealand riders. As they rushed along they saw horses both ridden and led, at the peak of fitness, with coats gleaming like polished metal. They were all turned out immaculately; tails shimmered like waterfalls of silk, saddlecloths were snowy white, hindquarters were decorated with intricate patterns.  
They arrived at the dressage arena just in time to slip into a seat, before Tom rode in. Ginty hadn’t realised that riders wore top and tails for dressage at this level and thought Tom looked impossibly glamorous and elegant. His face showed only calm concentration as he entered the arena, and halted, saluting. His horse, a tall, athletic animal seemed strangely familiar to Ginty, which she was puzzling over, until Mrs M nudged her and whispered, “Finn’s big brother.”  
Bear performed his dressage in what seemed an effortless display of obedience and power. Ginty watched rapt. Later on she would daydream about herself on Finn doing dressage like that, but for now she watched in admiring concentration.  
Tom rode to his final halt, and as he left the arena there was a ripple of knowledgeable applause from the small audience. Mrs M and Ginty made their way round to the warm-up areas where they found Tom talking to Oliver and a groom, enthusiastically patting Bear. When he saw Ginty and his mother he beamed at both of them. “I thought you hadn’t got here. Did you see it?”  
Mrs M assured him they had, and it hadn’t been bad at all. As they all slowly started walking towards the stabling area, Tom turned grinning to Ginty, “I could have perfect tens all the way through a test and all Mum would say is ‘not bad, not bad’ !”  
Mrs M and Oliver fell into conversation and the groom leading Bear soon pulled ahead of them, so Ginty found herself walking besides Tom. She felt unusually struck dumb with shyness and did little more than smile and make agreeing murmurs as Tom chattered cheerfully. Tom’s tailcoat which fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders and set off his long lean figure was going to feature in her dreams for several nights to come.

Back at the temporary stable block where the horses were housed, Ginty met Oliver’s horses, his travelling groom Elaine and Tina who, like her, was a working pupil. Elaine was polite but brisk, juggling lists of things to do and times to remember. As Ginty gradually realised, there was a lot to organise. Tina seemed inclined to be friendly, seeing her perhaps as an ally to share the brunt of being bossed around by Elaine.  
Ginty and Mrs M were taken to walk the cross-country course with both Tom and Oliver. Apparently they had already walked the course three times, and this was their final walk before the cross-country on the next day. At each fence Mrs M asked Tom how he was planning to ride it, and Tom explained, walking his line through the elements of each jump, and discussing how many strides he was aiming for between parts of the fence. Oliver talked Ginty through the course as they walked. The fences were bigger than anything she had seen, beautifully built and laid out in challenging combinations. She felt both scared and impressed by the most difficult ones, but also filled with a longing to have a go herself. Oliver asked for her opinion of each fence and listened to her initially timid answers with such apparent respect that she gained confidence and was able to discuss each fence with him in quite a normal way.  
Oliver explained how the fences were made harder by being built on turns, slopes and banks, and how the horse was often being asked to jump a fence that it only saw for itself a stride or two before it had to jump it. Trust between horse and rider was implicit, that the rider knew the course by heart and had prepared the best way to approach each fence knowing their horse and how it might react, and the horse had to have total confidence that the rider wasn’t asking it to jump anything that wasn’t safe.  
Once they were back from walking the course, Ginty was shown Oliver’s horsebox which was a grand affair with impressive living accommodation. Elaine was in the back laying out mysterious baskets of equipment for the following day.  
They spent the evening in the bar and restaurant. At first they all sat together to eat, then Mrs M and Oliver were drawn away to talk to one acquaintance after another, and Elaine joined a group of her friends. Ginty was feeling anxious about being left on her own but Tom took both her and Tina under his wing, introducing them to his own friends and making them both laugh with the stories he told. As the evening wore on Ginty became aware of a pleasant glow when Tom’s eyes met hers.  
“He likes you, doesn’t it?” Tina pointed out, rather unnecessarily, when they were in the toilets. Ginty glanced at her, aware of potential jealousy, but Tina grinned at her cheerfully enough. By the end of the evening they were on their way to being firm friends.  
A friendly buzz hung over the whole evening, thought Ginty, though she was aware of the undercurrent of excited nerves building up before the next day’s cross-country. It wasn’t late when they all exchanged good nights and retreated to their respective horseboxes and caravans to sleep.

Ginty went to the stables early in the morning to find Elaine and Tina had arrived there even earlier. There was an atmosphere of anticipation infusing the early morning bustle. Ginty initially felt rather a spare part, but made herself available to fetch and carry and be generally useful. Elaine asked her and Tina to take two of the horses for a leg-stretch and pick of grass, and they led them to a quiet grassy area where other grooms were doing the same.  
As Oliver had three horses to ride cross-country, he was one of the earliest to go on his first horse. Ginty and Tina returned to find Elaine strapping on protective boots and screwing in studs. The horse, a big bay called Jazz Warrior, recognised his cross-country equipment and fidgeted restlessly, tossing his head with an eager light in his eyes. As he saw Oliver approaching down the line of stables in his stripy cross-country shirt, Jazz gave an excited whicker; Ginty was surprised to find a line read long ago in Scripture lessons brought to life : ‘ he mocketh at fear and is not affrighted…he saith among the trumpets Ha ha and he smelleth the battle afar off..’  
As Oliver walked Jazz away, Tina was dispatched with a heavy rucksack full of equipment to wait for him at the end of the steeplechase. As Ginty handed her the bag she was astonished at its weight, and said, “What have you _got_ in here?”  
“Spare shoes, spare boots, spare reins, girth, stirrup leathers, kitchen sink..” said Tina grinning. As she departed, Elaine handed Ginty two buckets filled with equipment to carry. “You’re coming up to the ten minute box with me.”  
“Have you been to a three-day-event before?” asked Elaine as they walked. When Ginty said she hadn’t, Elaine started to explain exactly what happened. Oliver and Jazz were riding round the first phase of ‘roads and tracks’ before arriving at the second phase, the steeplechase which had to be ridden at a gallop. Tina would be at the end of the steeplechase in case horse or rider needed any help, but if all was well, they would carry straight on with the third phase of more ‘roads and tracks’ before arriving at the start of the cross-country. There they would have time in the ‘ten minute box’ to rest and recover before setting out on the cross-country. Elaine and Ginty would sponge Jazz off, wash his mouth, check all boots and studs, apply grease to the front of his legs then keep him walking round. The vet would also check each horse before it was allowed to go cross-country.  
They had a long time to wait, and they settled into a corner, spreading their equipment out on the grass round them. Other grooms were also setting up camp around the edges of the enclosed area.  
“So Oliver says you might be coming to us next year?” said Elaine.  
Ginty was surprised but pleased that an idea which had only seemed a possibility could be talked about as a probability. “I hope so,” she said, “I would absolutely love to.”  
“Well, as long as you don’t mind mucking in with everything you’ll get on fine. Oliver is fantastic at helping young riders. Tom has been great – I know his mum jokes about him being lazy, but he does actually get stuck in with the dirty jobs. We had one girl who thought she should ride all day and only muck out her own horse but she didn’t last very long!” Elaine sounded contemptuous and Ginty made a heart-felt mental note not to end up like that, not that she thought she would, after her time at Sweetmore.  
She was to have learned a great deal by the end of the day. Jazz trotted into the ten minute box still looking fresh and full of himself despite the miles he had already covered. He bore patiently with Ginty holding him while Elaine fussed round him, then Elaine took him and briskly walked him round. Oliver gratefully took the water bottle Ginty handed him, then chatted remarkably calmly with one of the other riders. As they waited, a ripple of concern passed through the onlookers. One of the horses being led round was catching his hind toes in the grass as he walked. It was apparent that his hindquarters were seizing up. “He’s tying up,” Ginty heard someone say. The vet was there instantly, people rushed to help, commiserate, offer extra rugs for the horse’s back. Over the next few years Ginty was to see time and time again how much solidarity and support there was amongst event riders. But now it was time for Oliver to get on and Elaine and Ginty watched nervously as Jazz entered the start box. He was rearing with excitement as the starter counted them down, and at the word ‘go’ he whirled round and was off. They watched him disappear over the first fence, then moved their stuff over to the area beyond the finishing line. “If you run over that way,” Elaine said, “You can see the last few fences.” Listening to the commentary, Oliver’s round seemed to be going well and eventually he and Jazz galloped into view. Jazz’s ears were still pricked and he flew the last three jumps in perfect style. Ginty ran down to the finish where Jazz circled, his nostrils flared and blowing, his ribcage expanding alarmingly. Oliver loosened his noseband while Elaine threw spongefuls of water over his neck and sides.  
“It’s all go now,” Elaine said to Ginty. “I’m going to take the saddle back to the stables and help Tina get the next one ready. Can you walk Jazz round here until the vet says you can go, then we’ll wash him off properly back at the stables?” Ginty did as she was told, walking the wired up Jazz until his breathing slowed and his sides no longer heaved. The vet stopped her, listened to Jazz’s heart and waved her away. She followed the roped off horse walk back to the stables where she found Elaine with Oliver’s next ride ready and waiting. Mrs M and Tom were there too, having been out on the course watching at some of the most complicated fences. Oliver reappeared, swallowing the last of a banana, mounted and rode away. Tina set off once more to the steeplechase. Elaine and Ginty washed down Jazz thoroughly, checking his legs carefully for any cuts or bumps, then wrapped him up in warm but breathable rugs.  
“He needs to keep walking now till he’s dry, then you can let him have a pick of grass. Then come and meet me at the finish line again!”  
It was an exhausting day; periods of waiting around alternated with bursts of intense activity, and endless walking. Tom took pity on Ginty when Oliver’s second horse came back and offered to cool him off. Mrs M appeared with snacks and drinks for everyone. There was a short rest for everyone before Oliver’s third horse and Tom’s Spirit Bear had to be made ready, one after the other. Ginty didn’t get to see much of the course being ridden, apart from the first and last few fences, but she loved the air of excitement and activity that lasted all day. Happy riders who had gone well gathered to talk their rides over, and shared advice with those still to go.  
Theirs was a lucky and successful day. All four of their horses went clear and came back safe and sound. Just as Ginty was thinking it was all over and she might be able to sit down, she found out she had more walking to do. Tom, Elaine, Tina and herself each took a horse and led them in a long walk to make sure their tired muscles didn’t stiffen up. Then they stopped and allowed them to graze. Tom was bubbling over with the joy of going cross-country and was making them all laugh. All around them other grooms and horses were spreading out to relax and eat grass and share stories in the early evening sunshine. What a lovely world to be part of, thought Ginty.  
Elaine wrapped each horses’ legs in a cooling clay poultice and stable bandages. Then they were finally left to eat their feed and rest, while the humans went to eat, drink and dance in the bar. The adrenalin of the day was released in loud conversation and the liberal consumption of alcohol. Ginty stayed with Tom and the others as groups of laughing people swirled and eddied through the crowded bar. It was a balmy, clear night and people spilled outside and sat talking under the stars. Occasionally people slipped away to have private parties in their horseboxes.  
Ginty hadn’t been drinking, but she realised as the night became early morning that she was absolutely exhausted. Tom walked her back to the lorry. Their hands brushed as they walked and he caught her hand and held it. She didn’t pull it away. At the lorry door, very gentlemanly, or perhaps mindful of his mother already sleeping in the horsebox, Tom lightly brushed her cheek with a goodnight kiss. It was the faintest whisper of a kiss, yet as she climbed into her bunk and rolled up in her sleeping bag, she felt her cheek tingling until she finally fell asleep.

Ginty’s alarm clock woke her far too soon and she blearily struggled out into the cold dewy morning. She passed several grooms looking distinctly the worse for wear as she entered the stable block. She found Elaine already there, washing off legs. “I thought you might be late out this morning,” she said, sounding pleased. “You were still partying when I went to bed.” Relieved that she hadn’t disgraced herself on that score, Ginty went to fetch more warm water. Tina was mucking out, looking a bit green. Tom arrived too, looking bouncy and cheerful as if he’d had a full eight hours sleep instead of less than five, soon followed by Oliver. Each horse was led out and trotted up, then taken for a walk in hand to loosen them up. Then they had to be plaited up and groomed to look immaculate again before the official trot-up in front of the vets. “What’s your plaiting like?” Elaine asked Ginty, but before Ginty could tentatively say that she supposed it was ok, Tom interrupted with, “If Mum says her plaits are good then they must be good!" Secretly pleased, she was given Bear to plait and turn out. When all the horses were ready Oliver and Tom returned, looking immaculate themselves in smart suits and the horses were taken to the vet inspection. Once that was successfully over, they all retreated to the catering tent and refuelled with bacon sandwiches before the show-jumping started.  
Ginty was able to watch Oliver show-jumping and it was soon clear why he was such a stalwart of the British team. Not only were his horses so fit that they had recovered well from their cross-country exertions, but Oliver was utterly calm and focused, producing his horse perfectly at each jump. The placings after cross-country were so close that a single pole knocked down could drop a horse several places down the leaderboard. Tom was anxious before he show-jumped, confessing that it was his least favourite phase. Bear only had one knockdown though and Tom came out delighted.  
The day ended well. Tom was philosophic about being just outside the placings, but Oliver had won the intermediate class and been placed with the other two in the advanced class.  
Ginty was in a happy daze as they drove home with Bear in the back of the lorry and Tom beside her in the cab. She was sorry the event was over, but before they left, Oliver had said that they must talk soon about her going to him next year. And while that was something to look forward to, there were still all the horses at Sweetmore ready to compete, and Tom home for the summer. And _that_ could be very exciting indeed.


	22. Luke 15: 11-32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it has been worked out on Trennels that the twins' birthday must be at the beginning of the summer holidays, so I have assumed this too.

Edwin, sitting in the beer garden of the local pub, turned the pages of his Sunday paper. When Denis had first suggested, that as Rowan went to church with her mother and the others on a Sunday morning, and Karen took along the Dodd children, that the two of them might have a pre-dinner pint at the pub, Edwin had been distinctly dubious. When he had mentioned it to Karen she seemed delighted, “Oh yes! What a good idea darling!” But he had found the first occasion surprisingly enjoyable, so that now, by summer’s end, it was a firm tradition.  
It was ridiculous really, he mused. There was nothing that he and the younger man had in common. He looked up now as Denis emerged from the pub, bearing two brimming pints. Tall, fit, athletic, every inch of him proclaimed ‘alpha male’, thought Edwin wryly. No wonder that wretched boy Peter deferred to him in a way he never would have to Edwin. And Chas absolutely adored him, running off to ‘help’ on the farm whenever he was allowed. Chas’ devotion to trains had extended to anything mechanical and potentially dangerous, so Edwin was secretly terrified of him putting arms or legs too near a combine harvester and ending up horribly mangled. But Denis was clearly sensible, and Chas obeyed his every word, so with an effort Edwin kept his fears to himself.  
Denis put the pints down and picked up his own paper. There was an easy companionship between the two men, which didn’t need to be broken with restless chatter. But when one or other read something in their paper which they felt like commenting on they did, and shared opinions with interest, if not always agreement. And that was the thing, thought Edwin. The young Frenchman actually took an interest in politics, current affairs, - _ideas_. Whenever he had inadvertently started to talk about politics with Captain or Mrs Marlow, the conversation had died an immediate and embarrassed death. Apart from a vaguely expressed hope that ‘our lot’ would get in (meaning Anthony Merrick of course) they never seemed to think intellectually about anything.  
As usual, the hour in the pub garden passed too quickly, and they folded newspapers and drained pints. Today both families were having Sunday dinner together in honour of Captain Marlow being home on leave for the last two weeks of August. As the two men strolled unhurriedly through the village and up the hill they both noticed a slim figure a little way ahead of them. Denis half exclaimed, then shook his head. “I though that was Rowan. But it is not. It is one of the girls, no? But I thought they were all at church?”  
Edwin peered short-sightedly, “I think it must be Virginia! I didn’t realise she was expected home?”  
“No-one has said they are expecting her. I think it will be a ‘happy surprise’!”

XXXX

 

As soon as they returned from church, Nicola had grabbed her book and rushed out to her favourite spot in the garden, to avoid all the table-laying huha caused by both families needing to fit round the dining table. But, temporarily defeated by the book, she had laid it down, and chewing a strand of grass, lay lost in thought.  
The book was 'Mansfield Park'. Karen had told her that if she was going to try Austen again, she ought to start with 'Pride And Prejudice', but Rowan had followed that by saying that with its Navy-mad heroine worshipping her Naval brother, surely 'Mansfield Park' was the one for Nick. Ha-very-ha, she said at the time, but seeing 'Mansfield Park' on the library shelf, she had fatally picked it up. And now she was blooming well _stuck_ with it. It was twice as long as 'Persuasion' and the characters were _dire_ \- all of them fussing over putting on a play at their age - it was almost as bad as all that Gondalling. And Fanny was the ultimate wet rabbit; no wonder that Edmund was falling for the ghastly Mary ....  
Why did boys - men - have their heads turned so easily by a pretty face and a little charm? It wasn't just that they were _stupid_ \- at least, Edmund wasn't supposed to be stupid in the book. And nor was Patrick.....  
Their friendship was back to where it had been pre-Ginty - she _thought_ \- but she had noticed the self-conscious way Patrick - talking about term-time in London - would occasionally mention Claudie. So she couldn't help wondering if Patrick had rebounded off Ginty, straight onto the French au-pair. Which meant that she had to ask herself - if that _was_ the case, did she _mind?_ And she thought, that actually, she rather did.  
She heard the dinner gong distantly from inside the house. Sitting up, brushing grass off her Sunday clothes, she saw across the garden, standing at the front door, like a vision called into being by her own thoughts, Ginty herself. Nicola gave an involuntary squawk of surprise. Turning at the sound, the vision looked at her. “Oh. Nicola,” it said. “Hello.”

XXXXX

 

Mrs Marlow looking out for Edwin and Denis, who neither liked walking into the house without politely knocking first, was drawn to the front door by the sound of voices. Nicola and …  
“ _Ginty!_ ” she cried. “What are you doing here?” Ginty hadn’t been home for eleven months, and in that time she had grown taller, thinner and far prettier than anyone had a right to be in jeans and Tshirt and no make-up.  
“ _Ginty_!” exclaimed Lawrie, coming into the hall behind her mother. “Why are you here? Have you been sacked?”  
Edwin and Denis simultaneously gave diffident coughs from behind Ginty. Coming up unnoticed behind Ginty, they weren’t sure whether to intrude on this family reunion.  
Mrs Marlow, temporarily speechless, came to herself and said, “Goodness! Come in then everyone! Let’s all go through to the sitting room. Most of the others are there already.” As they crossed the hall, Peter came leaping down the stairs and skidded to a halt on seeing Ginty. She in turn hardly recognised him as he had shot up and filled out since she had last seen him, and for a second she had thought he was Giles.  
“Ginty!” he said. “Have you been chucked out of your place then?”  
“It’ll be easier if you tell us altogether,” said Mrs Marlow hastily, leading them into the sitting room. “Geoff, Ginty’s here!”  
Ginty’s heart was hammering as she looked round the room. Her father, half-rising from his chair, looked distinctly unfriendly. Aunt Molly sprang from the chair beside him though, smiling at her. “Ginty, my dear, how lovely!” she said. “Gosh, you look more beautiful than ever! Doesn’t she, Pam?”  
Mrs Marlow stammered and fell silent. Rowan stepped smoothly from the window where she had been standing with Karen. “Hello, Ginty,” she said calmly. “You haven’t met Denis. Denis, this is Ginty.”  
Denis and Ginty shook hands, Ginty mentally noting bright blue eyes and longish curling black hair. Everyone else arranged themselves and their faces into suitable expressions, trying not to show too much surprise or curiosity. Only Ann wasn’t yet in the room. The three Dodd children, who had looked up from their board game only briefly, carried on playing quietly.  
“So why are you here?” said Captain Marlow. Only he and Ginty remained standing, which gave it the air of an interrogation. ‘When did you last see your father?’ thought Ginty wryly, and clenched her hands before they could betray a tremble.  
“I’m spending a weekend with Oliver Fitzwilliam at his yard in Somerset. I got my exam results last week and I wanted to tell you. I was going to write but Oliver said it was silly not to come when you’re so close.”  
Before Captain Marlow could say anything, Lawrie burst out, “You mean _the_ Oliver Fitzwilliam? The one who won Badminton this year?”  
Ginty glanced at her with some relief. At least one of them knew whom she was talking about. “Yes,” she said, turning again to her father. “He’s the top event rider in the UK. I’m spending the weekend there as a sort of trial for going to him next year.”  
Captain Marlow’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What about the place you’ve been at?”  
“I’m going back tomorrow. I’ll be working there until the new year. Then I’m coming to train with Oliver.”  
Ann’s head appeared through the door. “Mrs Bertie says dinner’s ready….Ginty! How lovely!” and she crossed the room and gave Ginty a quick, impulsive hug. “I’ll tell Mrs Bertie we need another place!” and she rushed back out to the kitchen.  
They all filed through to the dining room, and the fuss of everyone settling down meant that there was no real conversation for a while, other than Fob loudly insisting she sat by Peter. Rose and Chas managed to get one side of Nicola each. Aunt Molly quietly said, “Come sit by me, Ginty,” and she found Ann slipping into the seat on the other side. It was a relief to be between the two people who seemed actually pleased to see her. While the meat was carved and the vegetables were passed she took the chance to look properly at everyone. Karen, quietly exchanging a word with Edwin, looked different somehow – and not just because her pregnant belly seemed huge to Ginty. She looked calmer and more relaxed than she had a year ago, thought Ginty. Maybe pregnancy was suiting her. Rowan, catching Ginty’s eye flashed her a quick smile as she passed her a plate. “Our own beef,” she said wryly. “Almost a fatted calf.” Denis was passing her the potatoes. He really was good looking, thought Ginty, though not her type at all, and she hid a grin at the thought of her ‘type’ who was probably settling down to Sunday lunch cooked by Oliver’s wife.  
“How did you get here Ginty?” asked Ann, quietly. Ginty explained that Mrs M had driven her and Tom and Tom’s horses over in the ferry, and down to Oliver’s yard in the horsebox. Tom was staying with Oliver for the autumn season, with Burghley as his goal for Spirit Bear. Ginty would return in the lorry with Mrs M the next day.  
“Who’s Tom?” said Peter, close enough to hear and scenting a teasing opportunity.  
“My boss’s son,” replied Ginty calmly. “Watch Burghley on the TV and you might see him.”  
The clatter of serving and passing food had died down, and Captain Marlow broke in, “So what is the arrangement going to be with this Oliver person?”  
Ginty explained that she would be working in return for her training, with the opportunity to ride a lot of good young horses and eventually compete on them if she was good enough. But she found it hard to convey to him just how exciting this chance could be. She had spent the previous day riding some of Oliver’s horses while he taught her and every moment had been utterly amazing.  
“Did you see Antares?” asked Lawrie. Antares was the horse who had won Badminton and been to the Olympics.  
“I rode him actually,” said Ginty airily. Lawrie looked suitably impressed, but catching Ann’s interested eye Ginty felt compelled to explain, “Well, Oliver had been schooling him and he was called to the phone. So he asked me to ride him down the lane and back to cool him off. Still, he was lovely.”  
“I’m doing the Pony Club event on the Idiot next week,” announced Lawrie.  
“And is Peter’s half coming too?” asked Ginty, remembering the old joke.  
“Peter’s half is _my_ half too now,” said Lawrie.  
“Peter has officially retired from riding,” said Peter. “Peter has discovered the wonder of quad bikes which don’t break one’s collarbones at every opportunity.”  
“I got given Peter’s half for my last birthday,” said Lawrie with all the smugness of one who has finally seen justice done after a long and strenuous campaign.  
“You said something about exams,” said Aunt Molly to Ginty. “What have you been doing?”  
“I did five GCSEs. I sat them at the local college. And I’ve passed them all!”  
“Oh Ginty, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Ann. “I knew you could do it!  
“Ginty, that’s marvellous,” said Karen. “I had no idea you were still studying for them.”  
“Well, I didn’t know if I could do it,” admitted Ginty. “But I got an A in English Language, and Literature. And Bs for my French and Maths. And German I got a C but that was always my worst subject, so I’m just glad I passed.”  
Her father looked friendlier than he had all meal. “Yes, that’s jolly good Ginty. You’ll be able to apply for college courses now if you change your mind about this horse lark.”  
“Actually, I don’t think I will,” said Ginty firmly. “This is what I really want to do.” She paused, nerving herself to say what she had been rehearsing on the train journey to Westbridge. “I know it all started the wrong way. I didn’t come home last Christmas because I was afraid of how angry everyone was with me. And that was wrong and I’m sorry. And then I was stupid and impulsive running away and I’m sorry about that too. But now I know what I want to do and this is my life. And I’m going to give it the best shot I’ve got because I think I can be _good_ at it. And the real reason I came today is because I wanted to show I wasn’t afraid anymore.”  
Peter whistled admiringly, then hastily apologised, as his father glared at him. Ginty’s hand, still clutching her knife, was trembling violently, but Aunt Molly closed her own hand firmly over hers reassuringly. “Well said, dear,” she said. “You sound just like Pam when she was telling Mother that she was going to marry Geoff come hell or high water."  
Unexpectedly Geoff gave a muffled snort of laughter. “Gosh yes, she did rather.” He smiled at Ginty in an amused way, and relaxing she smiled back. Her mother however frowned rather doubtfully at the apple crumble she was dishing up.  
Once pudding was doled out, everyone relaxed and the conversation became general and inconsequential. Once the Dodd children had had the two helpings of crumble and cream that they were allowed, they asked if they could get down. Rowan and Denis too made polite excuses and slipped away.  
“We’ll have coffee in the living room, I think,” said Mrs Marlow. As they pushed back chairs and got up, Lawrie said quietly to Ginty, “Can I use that?”  
“Use what?” Ginty was bewildered.  
“The way you said all that to Daddy. Can I use it in a play?”  
“What on earth do you mean?”  
“It would work for Juliet. I think..”  
“Honestly Lal, you are the end,” said Nicola from behind, giving her a sisterly push. Ginty found herself close to Nicola for the first time since their hesitant hellos at the front door.  
“How about you Nick? Did you get half a pony for your birthday?” she asked.  
“No. Do you want to see mine?” Nicola sounded eager. “Come up to my room a minute.”  
Ginty wasn’t sure if it was pride in her new acquisition, or genuine friendliness that was inspiring Nicola, but either way she took it as an olive branch and followed her up the stairs. Nicola led the way into hers and Lawrie’s room and, sitting on the bed, opened up her shell box where she kept her treasures.  
“Is it something to do with Nelson?” Ginty asked, but Nicola handed her three see-through plastic pouches with coins inside. The first one Ginty looked at had an owl on one side and a helmeted head on the other.  
“That’s Athene,” said Nicola, then handing Ginty another one with a proud note in her voice, “This one’s from the time of _Alexander_. The other two are earlier.”  
“Greek coins!”  
“ _Ancient_ Greek coins! Aren’t they super?”  
“They are rather,” said Ginty, admiring the small one showing a stylised image of a horse. “But they seem an odd thing for Mummy or Daddy to have chosen?”  
“It was Kay and Edwin’s idea, apparently. Edwin has a friend who deals in coins, and he got hold of them.” Nicola carefully placed them back in their box.  
Putting the box back on the windowsill, she glanced out of the window and gave a sudden muffled yelp. “I completely forgot the time! I’m supposed to be going hawking with Patrick. He’s already waiting.”  
Ginty discreetly peered over Nicola’s shoulder at the figure of Patrick, motionless with Regina on his fist. waiting in the shadow under the trees. “I’d forgotten how small he is,” she commented.  
Nicola looked at her sharply as if suspecting malice, but saw none. “Yes, poor Patrick - even Peter looms over him rather now!” She paused, half frowning. “Gin…” she started, then hesitated.  
“Yes?” prompted Ginty.  
Nicola seemed to change her mind. “Oh no, it’s nothing. It can wait till another time anyway. I’d better dash. If I don’t see you before you go – you know – good luck and all that!” And with that she was rushing down the stairs ahead of Ginty and out of the front door, leaving Ginty to rejoin the rest of her family in the sitting room.


	23. An Aunt Ex Machina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about naval colleges, or what Peter would have to do to leave Dartmouth. But some time ago I read the autobiography of the Admiral who commanded during the Falklands. In it he explained that he was sent to a Naval school because it was free - as long as you then went into the Navy. If you didn't your parents had to essentially back pay your fees. This is presumably an anachronistic system for the timeline I am using, but as it suits my story I am using it for Peter at Dartmouth.

Rowan and Denis sat in the Old Shippen waiting for the old camping stove to bring the kettle to a reluctant boil. “It might have been quicker to have had coffee in the house,” said Rowan.  
“Yes. But you know I prefer your family in small quantities,” replied Denis, teasing.  
Rowan grinned, not at all offended. “And you had an hour of the Dodd mister first, so you’ve had a double dose too.”  
“Ah no,” Denis chided gently. “You know I _like_ Edwin.”  
“Most extraordinary,” Rowan remarked. “You and Nicola too. Two otherwise quite sensible people.”  
“Perhaps you should give him a chance,” Denis suggested. The kettle finally emitted a creaky whistle.  
“Perhaps I should.” Rowan waited for the kettle to reach its ear-piercing crescendo before lifting it off the heat.  
Denis spooned coffee from a jar into the two old mugs they used in the Shippen. “So why is this new sister the one who makes you cross?”  
“Ginty? Well, she didn’t specially today. But in the past…..”  
“Is it because she’s the one who’s got away?” asked Denis lightly.  
Rowan frowned, sensing the start of a familiar argument. Denis continued, “Is it because she is like the sparrows hopping round on the grass outside the falcon in a cage?”  
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Ginty’s not a sparrow. And I’m _not_ in a cage. I could leave..”  
“But you don’t. Even though you know your brother _wants_ to run the farm. And he will be better than you in the end. The farm in his heart. It’s not in yours. Is it?”  
The conversation had fallen into a well-worn pattern, an argument they had gone over so often that they repeated the words with practised resignation rather than fury.  
“You know it’s complicated,” protested Rowan. “You know Peter can’t just leave, even when he turns sixteen.”  
“You know I could even bear it if you were not with me, as long as you were _happy_ somewhere else,” said Denis. This was new. Rowan looked at him with surprise. Denis continued, “You could be living in London with … with a banker called Henry…and I would be more happy knowing you weren’t stuck here bored and miserable.”  
“A banker called Henry…?!”  
“Of course, it would be much better if you _were_ with me…”  
For a few moments they had no need of words.  
Rowan pulled away and sat up. Really, she thought, the image of Ann’s indignant face popped into her head at the most inconvenient times.  
“I should go and say good luck and good-bye to Ginty properly. Then perhaps we could go for a walk?”

 

XXXXX

 

All the family members had wished her good luck in one way or another by the time Ginty made her farewell. Her father shook her hand before she left. “You know I’m due a leave at home for Christmas this year. Perhaps you’ll have time for a visit before you start at Oliver’s?”  
Her mother had been quiet and rather formal all afternoon, but she smiled with an effort and gave Ginty a stiff, brief hug. Aunt Molly waited for them to say their good-byes, then said, “I think I’ll walk down to the station with you, Ginty, if you don’t mind? I could do with a walk!”  
Ginty half turned to wave and smile as they walked away but the front door was already closing behind her parents. They walked a little way in silence, then Aunt Molly said gently, “Don’t worry about your mother. She’ll come round.” Ginty looked at her in surprise, and Aunt Molly continued, “It’s hard being the fallen favourite. Your mother knows that.”  
“You mean…?”  
Aunt Molly smiled, remembering, “Your mother was always the favourite out of us two. I could have run off with the butcher’s boy for all your grandmother would have cared. But your mother – marrying a lowly lieutenant when my mother thought she could have had the son of a duke!”  
“It was _Mum’s_ life!”  
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it? And it’s all turned out for the best in the end. Just as I’m sure you going into horses will. Young people _should_ make their own choices in life. I was almost paralysed when Mother died – I couldn’t make the simplest decision for myself. Freedom is frightening when you’ve never had it. It’s taken me to this ripe old age to start doing things for myself, and now I’m absolutely loving it!”  
“Not old exactly!” said Ginty, politely, and Aunt Molly laughed.  
“Old enough anyway! I should have done it years ago. Young people shouldn’t be sacrificed to their parents. It was bad enough in _my_ day..” She tailed off.  
“Do you mean Rowan?” asked Ginty, realising.  
“Your sister clearly doesn’t want to be running the farm. And your brother clearly _does_. I understand there are financial complications among other things. Something will have to be done, I think. That lovely boy can’t wait for Rowan forever.” She paused thoughtfully, then smiled at Ginty. “I haven’t told your parents yet, but I’ve found the perfect little terraced house in Colebridge. It’s tiny but it’ll be just right for me. And maybe a cat – if I’m going to be an interfering old aunt I think I ought to have a cat. Or a very spoilt little dog. But it’s costing me considerably less than what I’m selling the apartment in Paris for. So you see, I’ll be able to be interfering in a very _useful_ way indeed.”  
Ginty was silent, imagining Rowan’s and Peter’s lives changed as fundamentally as hers had been over the last eight months. “That’s going to be marvellous!” she said finally.  
“I hope so. And another thing I was wondering. I gather you’ll get your bed and board when you’re with Oliver Fitzwilliam, but what will you do for clothes and things?”  
Ginty had been wondering that herself. When she first started at Oliver’s, she wasn’t even going to be getting the small wage that she currently earned at Sweetmore. “Make things last, I suppose.”  
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to help kit you out to start with. You’ll want a proper set of everything to compete in. I’m looking forward to being able to come and watch you ride when you’re back in England!”


	24. And Finally.

Rowan, who was driving, pulled off the motorway onto to the slip road leading to the airport. They had agreed the day before that Rowan wouldn’t park and go in to see Denis off, as they both professed to hate ‘messy’ good byes. But as the last minutes, then seconds of the journey disappeared, Rowan found herself regretting the decision more and more. She stopped the car in the drop-off zone. The last few weeks since the others had gone back to school had been intense, made sharper and sweeter by the knowledge that their time was coming to an end.  
“So. I’ll see you in four weeks,” she said uncertainly. She had already booked flights to go and see him for a long weekend. She had come to realise that if she took a few days off during the quieter autumn season the farm wouldn’t actually fall to pieces without her.  
“Four weeks,” Denis repeated, smiling at her. Then he rummaged in the bag at his feet. “I have a present for you.”  
For one insane split-second Rowan thought the present might be a ring, and couldn’t have said if she was relieved or disappointed when she saw the box that Denis held was too big for that. He had carelessly wrapped it in plain paper which she pulled away to reveal – “it’s a phone!”  
“A mobile phone. You see, you can ring me whenever you like when you’re out in the fields. And you can write me messages. I’ve paid for the contract so it’s all ready to go. I’ll be sending you messages all the time, you’ll see!”  
“This must be costing you a fortune – to phone abroad!”  
“It is worth it,” he said simply.  
Getting out, he pulled his luggage off the back seat, then leant back across the passenger seat to give her the most fleeting of kisses. “It won’t be forever now,” he said. “Your funny aunt has a plan!” And with that he was gone, leaving her to make the long drive back to Trennels alone.


End file.
